Worth It? (revised and completed)
by Kanae Valentine
Summary: When one is left with nothing, is it not natural to be willing to do anything to change what was fated?
1. Prologue: A Single Tear

**Here is the "final" revised version of _Worth It?_ There may be a few formatting issues just because of how it was set up.**

**I have to dedicate this final product to my amazing Beta Reader who has been so ridiculously patient with me. I also must dedicate this to two of my teachers who have continued to encourage me with my writing. And lastly, I must dedicate this to my friend who inspired me to finally deal with the formatting issues to post the entire, finished story for my readers.**

**Thank you.**

**~Kanae~**

* * *

**Prologue: A Single Tear**

The gently rolling hills of her homeland stretch out from her as she stands at the edge of her village. It had been fifteen years ago since she had last stared hopefully at the horizon, but the sun is setting and so are her spirits.

Somehow, she knows. He is not coming back. It has been five weeks since he should have returned, but he has not. Somewhere in the back of her mind, though, she knew months ago. She could feel that he was gone. Today is just a formality.

Still, she stands, praying she is wrong, but as the sun sinks below the horizon line, leaving her enveloped in the blackness of a cold night, there is a type of finality that comes that sinks her to the ground.

In truth, she is numb. There is no pain; there is no sense of loss. There is nothing. She knows that in time, it will come and that she should enjoy this moment while it lasts, but the numbness feels wrong. As she sits on the ground, her mind wanders back to before he left, when they were but children.

He was her only friend. None of the other children would talk to her because of the birthmark on her face. It is said, in her village, that this is a sign of the devil but he did not believe it. He was her only friend, and he was the closest person to her. The two of them would run as free as the wild horses that roam the hills, and many a day was spent doing naught more than climbing trees.

There was one particular tree, a tall, sturdy old tree; from there they would watch the sunset and the twinkling stars appear in the night sky. Now that she thinks upon it, many a night was spent up in that tree as well. She would often fall asleep leaning against his shoulder, and because he could not carry her and climb down, and he would never leave her nor wake her, he would fall asleep there, too. How they did not both fall and break their necks is beyond her understanding.

Of course, their other favorite activity was horseback riding. Under normal circumstances, women of her village are not taught this art form. Certainly, they are taught to ride, but they are not taught much more than this for it is all that most of them need to learn. Fortunately for her, though, one of the village elders made an exception in her case because of an incident that he said proved that she was different.

One of the younger children was riding with an elder supervising him and a snake slithered out in front of the horse; the horse began to panic. The elder who was teaching the boy immediately ran out to try to calm the frightened creature, but it reared up and kicked him, sending him back into a tree. She had been watching and was the only other person there. She was not quite sure what to do, but she saw the boy's teacher was unconscious and could do nothing.

She almost ran to get help but when she looked at the child and saw the sheer terror that was expressed on his face as he clung to the horse for dear life, she knew the little one could only stay on the horse for so long. If the horse threw him, he could quite possibly be killed. It was in that moment that she rushed forward, grabbing the reins that the boy had dropped, and she began trying to speak soothingly to the terrified horse.

After a few moments in which the horse nearly trampled her then nine-year-old self, she calmed it enough that she could stroke it. She continued to stroke its mane and speak soothingly to it until it had entirely calmed down. When it had, she lifted the boy off and set him down on the ground. As soon as his little feet had made contact, he ran to somewhere behind her. She turned just in time to see the boy jump into the arms of the village leader.

The boy was the leader's son. The leader, Galvin the Brave, was apparently impressed with how she had been able to calm the horse. He said she was a gifted horse whisperer. It was he who taught her the art of riding a horse and developing that delicate and most important trust between horse and rider, but _he_ would help her practice when Galvin was busy. And she remembers back to how he and she both would train for hours on end, riding and sparring. Then the day came when the Roman dogs took him away.

She wanted so badly to go with him. A young girl though she was, she was a surprising adversary who could, if not taken completely seriously, quickly overwhelm an enemy. She asked one of the Roman soldiers if she could go, too. After all, they were taking away her one and only friend for, at the least, fifteen years. He was the only reason she had not left her small village.

She had naught else to bind her to this lonely place with all of her family gone on before her. But the soldier refused, saying that women were not fit to be warriors, much less a little girl to become a knight. She was desperate though and she made the mistake of asking once more and he lashed out at her with his whip.

Even with the blood gushing from her temple and a sharp throbbing sting where the whip had made contact, she ignored it. She would not allow herself to cry. Seeing her 'insolence', he pulled back to try once more, but a hand caught the whip. _He _had caught it.

'Enough,' he had said with a voice that already sounded much older than his years.

'You _DARE_ give me an order, boy?' the Roman exclaimed indignantly.

'She is just a girl. Are you so weak that you must abuse her to show your power?'

'You,' the Roman growled, 'will be taught respect soon enough once you are in civilized Roman society, far away from this barbaric place.'

Thus said, he stormed off. She glared after the Roman until she felt one rough hand on her shoulder and the other brushing her hair out of her face to allow a better view of her wound.

'Why would you do that? He could have killed you.'

'Oh, what does it matter?' she had exclaimed, shoving his hand away from her forehead. 'I wish he would have. It could be no worse than this torture I have been sentenced to endure.'

'Do not let this be the last I hear from you before I must go or I shall be miserable.'

'Every day that you are gone, some Woad or Saxon could kill you.'

'Just as our people's enemies could do here,' he had pointed out.

He always did love pointing out the blatantly obvious and yet, at the same time, entirely missing the point.

'I know that! But at least...' she stopped not believing that she had almost said it.

'At least what?'

He looked at her with those brown eyes that see straight through to her soul and she childishly looked away, because she knew if he saw her eyes, he would understand. Of course, he never could leave well enough alone and tilted her face up to where he could see it. He then repeated his question, 'At least what?'

She almost answered him, but the Roman interrupted.

'Alright you heathen Sarmatians,' he called, getting the attention of all. 'It is time to leave and for you to begin your usefulness to the Roman Empire.'

_He_ removed his hand from her shoulder where it had been the whole time as he turned to look at the man. He then looked back to her a second later.

'I must go,' he had said.

Thus spoken, he turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm. Surprised, he turned back to her once more, but he did not get a chance to say anything, because she temporarily lost her calm practiced control over herself and kissed him before quickly pulling back.

It was nothing more than a childish, chaste kiss, but he and she were both confused by it. He stared at her in surprise, unsure of what his response should be to such an unexpected thing; she was embarrassed that she had let her emotions get the best of her and frustrated with herself for what she had done.

She had kissed her best friend whom she has liked for a long time, but could not tell the truth.

With such a realization, she had panicked and done the only thing that her jumbled mind could think of at the moment. She shoved him down and ran in the opposite direction.

She could hear him call after her, 'Iseult. Iseult!' but she continued to run towards the trees. She could not have answered him even if she had wanted. Already, the tears she had before restrained streamed down her face. She made it all the way to the tree that he and she would sit in the most, and she somehow climbed onto one of their favorite branches in the tree. It was there that she weeps.

Now, she finds herself running to that tree once more. Upon reaching it, she begins her climb. Being of the age of one and thirty does not hinder her for she cares not what the other people of this village say of her. She is an outcast already, entirely alone in the world. What more could they possibly hope to do?

She reaches the branch with no effort at all and pulls herself onto it. It is this tree that he and she had climbed every day. The same tree where quite a few nights, she had fallen asleep against his shoulder. The same tree that she had run to when he was taken away by the Romans, and now, as he has been taken from her permanently.

She leans back against the trunk of the tree, for _he_ is not here for her to lean on, and she curls up with her chin resting on her knees, her dark brown hair blowing into her face due to the chilled night air. As she brushes it away, she realizes a single tear has fallen. It falls into the cold, unforgiving night, and echoes throughout the lonely hills, the wind carrying upon it naught but a name.

Tristan


	2. Cold

**Chapter One: Cold**

The woman wakes with a start, stiff and cold. She's sitting in their tree. The fact that the sun is not yet risen above the horizon line makes her colder still, but she realizes that the cold compliments her frozen heart. With a grim nod, she accepts this truth. If he can never be here again, she will remain frozen, untouched by everything.

He is gone. Gone. And there is nothing that can be done by her or anyone else to change this fact.

Yet… Just as this thought crosses her mind, so does another. She can do nothing. That much is true, but there is one... Perhaps… Perhaps _he_ can.

A man known for his magic and skill. Yes. She will go to him. She shall go to him and beg for his help. He must help her. He must, for if he does not… If he cannot, she shall surely lose her will to live. With these thoughts circling through her mind, she packs her saddlebags and prepares her horse.

The sun is barely breaking through the gloom when she dons her armor and loads her weapons onto her horse.

She is ready. Following one last inventory, she climbs onto the fine horse.

Without so much as a last glance at her home of one and thirty years, she urges her horse forward. After all, there is nothing here for her. All lies in her destination.

Briton. That is where she must go. Her quest?

To find the Merlin.

O

It has been months, but now she is only minutes from the end of her long journey.

She looks down at her normally strong wrists now abnormally thin. They look like a child's wrists, yet they are her own, gaunt from scarcity of food. She had run out nearly three months ago and had been scrounging ever since then.

Soon, though, it will not matter. Soon she will be there. She will speak to the Merlin, spoken of only in whispers by the former Sarmatian knights that had already completed their service to Rome and returned. If what they had told was truth, Merlin could set things right.

She spurs her horse to go just a little faster, anxious to arrive, but upon reaching the top of a hill, she cannot help but stare in awe.

Hadrian's Wall. Its enormity nearly frightens her, but she cannot afford to falter now. Not when she is so close.

Within a mile of the wall, she hears shouts, then the gates open, and two riders come out to meet her. Seeing them, she slows her horse to a halt and the two horsemen do the same once within spear-throwing distance.

"Be you friend or foe?" shouts one, his long blond hair falling over his shoulders, his armor glistening in the sunlight.

"Pray for your sake the answer is friend or you'll taste cold steel!" shouts the other, his whole frame bulky and intimidating. She has no doubt that these men will make good on this threat, but she quickly realizes that she has no reason to fear, for they are her own kind.

Suddenly glad that Galvin had taught her the language of Rome, for these men have not spoken in the language of her ancestors, she cries out to them in a loud voice,

"I am Sarmatian. I am a friend. I mean no harm."

The blond man turns to his fellow rider. "Bors, I believe you have threatened a woman. A beautiful Sarmatian woman at that, if my eyes do not deceive me. I told you they exist."

"Aye. I suppose you did," his companion replies, clearly not used to admitting that he is wrong.

The blond spurs his horse forward and turns to align himself and his horse beside her, the bulkier man following suite.

"Hello, milady," the blond greets with a smile. "I am sorry if we frightened you."

"You didn't," she says, and the men see cross her face a sneer similar to that belonging to one of their old friends. Quite obviously, she is disgusted at the notion that they had frightened her.

"Woah! What have we here?" questions the other man, Bors. She turns to see what has caught his attention. Instantaneously, she realizes he has spotted the sword on her back and the quiver full of arrows that is strapped to her horse's saddle, resting at her knee, with the bow hung on the quiver.

The bulky man looks at her with a new, strange look, something between disbelief and confusion. "Why are you carrying all these, woman?"

She straightens pridefully in the saddle, her dark curls being slightly lifted by a gentle breeze wafting by them.

"My name is not 'woman'. It is Iseult, and I carry these weapons because I am a Sarmatian warrior."

The blond raises his eyebrows at his companion as if to suggest that he should ask another stupid question and get killed before looking to the woman and warmly smiling.

"My name is Gawain, and as you may have gathered, my friend here is Bors. I am certain that he meant you no insult. We are simply not accustomed to female warriors."

"Speak for yourself, Gawain. My Vanora is a fighter," Bors grins wolfishly.

Rolling his eyes, Gawain then looks once more to Iseult.

"Please excuse my friend. He can be crude at times. He obviously doesn't know the difference between what is acceptable to speak of in the company of men, and what is polite in the company of women."

She laughs loudly, the sound short and harsh. She has not laughed in some time she realizes with a slight frown.

"He does not bother me. I have heard worse in my village."

They look at her, clearly bemused but say nothing more of it instead moving to official business.

"What is your business here?" Gawain questions, bright blue eyes curious.

"To visit the place of my friend."

"Who is your friend? Maybe Gawain knows her?" asks Bors with a wink and a guttural chuckle.

"Him, not her. My friend is Tristan. Tristan Drust."

Their faces fall instantly as a horrible memory returns to them. Blood. Blood and death. There was nothing they could do. _Nothing_.

"I hate to tell you this, Iseult, but Tristan—"

"Is gone. I know."

She cannot bring herself to say dead, but they realize what she means.

"Then why are you—"

"To visit his grave." _And possibly fix things _are the words she leaves unspoken.

"Well, then," Bors begins, tone suddenly heavy, as one who has lost much.

He sends his horse into a canter, leaving Gawain and Iseult there without another glance. Gawain looks to her sadly before jerking his head in the direction of the wall.

"Follow me. I'll take you to him."

Without another word, he nudges the horse with his foot, signaling for the beautiful creature to start forward; Iseult does the same, riding alongside his horse.

"You were his friend?" she asks, but it's not really a question. Just a statement left open-ended to continue the conversation.

"Yes. He was my friend and he was my brother," he answers and on his face is a grim smile that is quickly replaced by curiosity. "But if you don't mind me asking, how do… did you know him?"

"I am of the same village as he."

"And that has brought you to look for him?" he questions, raising an eyebrow doubtfully at her.

She shakes her head, her hair falling into her face. With a sigh, she tucks the unruly strands behind her ears before answering the man.

"No. Tristan was my friend. My only friend."

Again, he appears saddened. "I see. I'm sorry… You must miss him."

"I have missed him every day for fifteen years, and now… Now I shall miss him for longer.

'_But maybe not much longer_,' she cannot help but think to herself.

"As I said. He was our brother. Almost always silent, but every one of us knew that if we needed help or someone to listen to us talk, he was always there to help. Though more often than not, he would offer witty one-liners that made you wonder why you came to talk to him to begin with," he laughs, obviously remembering one such experience. His face soon darkens again, however. "I cannot count how many times he helped us, saved one of us from some Woad or other danger, yet… When he needed our help… Well… All we could do was bury him."

"I'm sure he wouldn't blame you."

He releases a harsh, humorless laugh, sounding much as her laugh had earlier.

"No. You're probably right there. Tristan never did let anyone but himself take the blame for his decisions. I remember once, he was up in a tree with two of us below, there to catch him if he fell. And right as he was on the last two branches he did fall, but for some reason, we were unable to catch him. We never did find out if he was hurt, but he told us to stop apologizing because it was his own fault that he lost his 'damn footing'."

She cannot help but smile at the story Gawain had shared with her.

"He's been like that for as long as I can remember," she says, a small smile playing upon her lips. She pauses as they pass through the gates, and then continues. "One day, he was teaching me archery, or was trying to anyway, and somehow, when I loosed an arrow, it grazed his arm. I immediately began apologizing, but he just shook his head, cursed once, and said he shouldn't have been standing where he was."

She glances over to see the man smile. Just sharing these memories makes it seem as though Tristan is here with them. She can almost imagine him rolling his eyes and saying that they are chattering like two old women.

"He was definitely different than most people," Gawain chuckles.

Nodding, Iseult looks ahead to see Bors stopped and dismounting. She examines the area quickly, scanning. There are so many burial mounds. Some with swords marking them and some without.

In the midst of them, she sees for what she is looking, and immediately dismounts, not even bothering to tether her horse anywhere.

She walks to the burial mound, almost timidly and upon reaching it, stops.

A curved blade sprouts from the ground, and she knows, with neither Bors nor Gawain telling her, that she is standing in front of his grave.

The sword had been his father's and his grandfather's and his great-grandfather's, passed down for generations to every Sarmatian warrior in his family line. Every one of them had safely returned and produced a male heir, but here it ends.

Here in the cold ground lies the last of the Drust family. Tristan had no older or younger brothers. He didn't even have any sisters. He, like Iseult, had been orphaned at a young age. He was the last of his family.

And here he is, buried in the snowy ground.

Once more, she sinks to her knees, overwhelmed by the pain, the sadness.

'What if Merlin can't fix it? What if… What if… this is it? What if…'

Kneeling there in front of his grave, she realizes that more than a single tear has fallen.

Gawain and Bors exchange weary looks before returning their gazes to the silently crying woman. The cold wind that warns of nightfall's approach is beginning to pick up, lifting her hair around her. With her armor on and her hair moving around her shoulders in the wind, she looks surreal, like some warrior goddess of the hills, mourning a great warrior.

'It is a sad scene indeed,' Gawain thinks miserably as he and Bors watch her. As much as they wish to give her privacy, it would not be right to leave her here unprotected.

In thinking upon it, neither he nor Bors can help but draw some parallels between their fallen brother and this woman, who had been his friend long before either of them knew him.

From what they had seen, she was not quite as reserved as the scout had been, but she certainly was not what either of them would call 'chatty'.

Then there was the sneer of disgust she had presented them with when Gawain apologized for 'frightening' her. They had indeed seen that expression before, several times in fact, on the face of the silent scout. One such time had been when he had said those words that they found so prophetic in retrospect.

'_Yeh, yeh. We're all going to die some day. If it is a death by Saxon hands that frightens you,_' he had sneered at no one in particular, simply at the general idea of fear, '_stay home_.'

She also seems just as opposed to showing weakness to others because, even now, she sits with her back to them. The only indication she is crying is a sob that would wrack her frame from time to time.

After a few moments, Bors must turn away and walks to the grave of another fallen brother, but Gawain cannot take his eyes off from her. He realizes that he can no longer simply stand there and watch her cry like this; he must do something.

So wrapped up in her own grief and fears is Iseult that she jumps and spins, dagger in hand when his hand comes to rest on her shoulder. Her reddened eyes take in the sight of Gawain, hand having been withdrawn and held with the other out at his sides, showing he meant her no harm.

'Quick with a dagger, just like him. I can tell he taught her,' he thinks sadly.

Immediately, she forces herself to relax and reverts to how she had been before he had arrived, returning the dagger to its sheath.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, the sound barely loud enough for him to hear.

Assured that he is now in no danger, he joins her on the frozen ground, sitting with one leg outstretched before him, the other bent so that he can rest an arm on it.

"It's alright. No harm done."

For several moments, neither speaks, but then her voice, as if originating from some distant place, breaks the silence.

"How did he fall?"

Gawain nervously shifts. How much should he tell her? Warrior or no, she _is_ still a woman.

"Do not try to spare me images. I want to know how he fell," she states adamantly, answering his unspoken question with not so much as a glance at him, her voice as cold as the ground beneath them. In her speaking, her voice never once broke or gave any indication of what she must be feeling.

'So much like him,' he reflects, before trying to choose his words tactfully.

"I only saw very little of it, but Arthur saw much more and told us afterwards… Between the two stories, I can tell you what happened, but are you sure you wish to know?"

His reply is a nod and thus he continues.

"He fell to Cerdic, the Saxon leader and king. The filthy creature had run Tristan's sword arm through with a dagger. When he fell the Saxon pulled him up. Tristan didn't go quietly, though. He fought bravely, even at the end when he must have known that..." he pauses and shakes his head, restarting. "He yanked the Saxon knife from his arm and thrust it into Cerdic's leg with what must have been the last of his strength, and then… Cerdic used Tristan's own sword to kill him."

"How?" she asks, her voice still sounding as though she is far, far away.

Once more, he shifts nervously before remembering her words. _Don't try to spare me images. I want to know how he fell._

"Cerdic used Tristan's sword to cut his arm and then stab him through his side as he held him up. I saw Tristan arch back, looking at the sky and I think he had started to breathe his last breaths right then… Arthur turned to see Cerdic holding Tristan up, our brother's head bowed to the ground. When Cerdic saw that Arthur was watching, he spun and used his momentum to pull Tristan into a standing position, then delivered the finishing blow, right where the neck and shoulder meet, and it went straight down to his collarbone. When Arthur reached them, Tristan was…" he pauses, trying to gather his composure and starts again, "Arthur fought and killed Cerdic, but it was too late to save Tristan."

She watches it play out in her mind, never seeing the face of either Tristan or Cerdic, just the movements. She frowns realizing that she doesn't even know what he looked like at the time. All she knows is the quiet boy with the watchful brown eyes who had befriended her, protected her, trained her. She knows nothing of this scout, this man, whom Gawain said had fought Death itself but lost the battle.

"What did he look like?" she questions, eyes closed.

The blond knight is puzzled a moment before he realizes that the last she would have seen their friend was when he was not yet a man, only sixteen at the oldest. He feels the guilt begin to rise up again, and he attempts, for her sake, to find the words to describe his brother.

"He was tall, easily six foot with broad shoulders and tanned, weathered skin from his stay in this godforsaken land. He was strong, but not as heavy built as Bors. Closer to my build. He had a beard… He… He let his hair grow to his shoulders and he would have three or four warrior's braid throughout, to keep the most unruly strands in check, I suppose… He always looked watchful, like his hawk, always watching out for us, protecting us from things that none of the rest of us could see until they showed themselves… And then, there were a few times, I would see him sitting by himself in the tavern or in our meeting room, seeming as though he weren't really there at all, but was somewhere else... That's all I can think of really…"

She sits for a moment longer, eyes closed, trying in vain to picture the man Gawain had described before the knight's hand is on her shoulder again.

"It grows late. We should get you to the villa. I am certain we can find somewhere you might stay," he states gently, hating to pull her from whatever thoughts she had been having but knowing that if she catches cold, surely Tristan would be displeased.

She nods and opens her weary brown eyes—tired from her travels and from her loss—and she stands, Gawain doing the same. Without a word, for he knows no words can comfort her or ease the pain she feels, Gawain offers her his arm.

She almost argues, almost pridefully straightens once more and tells him that she is not some grandmother or fragile little girl who needs his arm, but she sees the compassion on his face and stops herself. She knows it would hurt him greatly were she to do such a thing, and she cannot bring herself to do it after he and his friend had been so kind to her. After he had brought her to him. Thus, swallowing back her pride, her warrior's independence, she links her arm in his.

She allows him to lead her back to her horse, and even to help her up without a word of protest from her, while Bors climbs onto his own horse. Once satisfied that she is safely seated on her horse, Gawain mounts his own steed and the world-weary group begins toward the villa, all with their own private thoughts occupying their minds.


	3. Smile

**Chapter Two: Smile**

Gawain and Bors lead Iseult into the villa and to the stables where Jols took their horses to stalls, but not before Iseult grabbed her bow and arrows, slung them over her shoulder, and removed a small leather pouch from her saddlebag, placing it in a compartment in her armor.

The two knights walking in front of her briefly wonder what is in the pouch before they wonder about a more interesting topic…

"How many knives you think she has hidden on 'er?" Bors asks Gawain in a hushed voice.

"At least one because she pulled it on me earlier when I surprised her," he murmurs back, "but since it would seem he trained her, I'd bet on several more."

Thus saying, Gawain innocently glances at her from his peripheral vision. She's said less than five words since they'd left the cemetery. She appears so tired and her mind is obviously occupied elsewhere, but he doesn't doubt for a moment that she is, on some level, taking in every move the two knights—and everyone else in her vicinity—makes, or so much as thinks about making.

He soon returns his attention to Bors.

"We're taking her to the tavern first, right? She looks half-starved," he murmurs.

Bors gives him a discreet nod in reply.

It is at this point that Gawain looks over his shoulder at her.

"Iseult?" he says, getting her attention. "We're going to take you to the tavern to get you something to eat, alright?"

"You look like you could use some meat on yer bones," Bors only partly jokes, trying to lighten the dark mood.

She looks at them both with a blank, detached expression on her face, but nods, whether in agreement to Bors or in answer to Gawain is either's guess.

In no time, they arrive at the tavern, and Bors immediately leaves them to go see a woman with a pitcher of ale in her hand. Iseult watches as the woman sets the pitcher down, slaps Bors, and then passionately kisses him before he disappears into the kitchen.

Gawain looks at Iseult and smiles, "That is Vanora, the woman Bors was talking about earlier."

Iseult nods, clearly still not yet returned to a talkative mood.

He can't help but sigh. Honestly, he isn't certain what to say to her, or even if there is anything he can say. She appears so tired, so pale, and fragile, as if any minute now, she might collapse of exhaustion. While they were at the graveyard, he had gotten a closer look at her. There were dark circles under her eyes and looking at her wrists, they looked as though they belonged to one of Bors' older children, not to a warrior. How long had she been traveling? How long had she been without food, for she clearly had, the only question was for what period of time.

Just when he's about to spout off some other random statement, he hears another voice.

"Who's this, Gawain?"

Immediately Iseult spins around, hand going to the hilt of her dagger but suppressing her reflex to draw it. Instead she looks to the speaker who she finds is somewhat short with brown curly hair. He has a bright smile, in all probability helped along a little by the alcohol she can smell on his breath.

"This is Iseult. Iseult, I'd like you to meet Galahad, another of the knights."

"Hello," she offers politely, not bowing or curtsying or showing any sign of greeting other than an almost imperceptible nod of her head.

Galahad's smile broadens, undaunted by her indifference. "Hello. 't's very nice to've met you."

And with that, he wanders back over to the table where he had previously been sitting.

"Galahad is the youngest knight that served with us," offers Gawain helpfully.

Once more, she merely nods.

A moment of awkward silence passes before Gawain remembers why they had brought her here in the first place.

"Here. Let's sit down over at this table, and I'll get Vanora to bring you out some food. Anything in particular?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "It makes no difference to me."

Gawain forces a smile and walks over to Vanora after making sure that everyone in the vicinity sees that she is here with Gawain. It is not that he is worried about any of the many drunks approaching her; he's more worried about what will happen to them if they do. Iseult is by no means slow about drawing any of her knives.

"Vanora?"

She turns from pouring some more ale to look at him, a smile on her face and a kind of mischievous gleam in her eye.

"What can I do for ya, Gawain?"

He glances toward the table at which he had left Iseult and sees her fidgeting with a loose string on her tunic sleeve, clearly once more deep in thought. She must have sensed his stare, though, because she looks up at him questioningly before forcing a smile.

He nods in return, satisfied that for the time being no one will bother her and looks back to Vanora.

"Did Bors tell you?"

Her eyebrows furrow as she glances at Iseult and then back to Gawain, an angry glint suddenly appearing in her eyes.

"What'd he do?"

Now it's Gawain's turn to be puzzled. "Nothing."

"Then why did ya glance at the brown-haired lady over there?" she asks before suddenly smirking, a new idea dawning on her. "A new lady friend of yours?"

"Not exactly, but she _is_ why I wish to talk with you. The woman—her name is Iseult—has traveled here all the way from Sarmatia by herself. From what I have seen, it seems she hasn't eaten very much in quite some time."

Concern becomes evident in the tavern-keeper's eyes, her maternal instincts emerging. "Why would she travel so far alone?"

"She is a friend of Tristan."

Immediately the woman looks crushed.

"The poor girl. Did you tell her?"

"I was going to, but somehow she already knew. She traveled all the way here to see his grave," he answers. He says nothing of how she had cried at the grave. Somehow, he knows that she would not appreciate anyone else knowing. She had trusted him and Bors enough to show a weakness in front of them, and he refuses to betray that trust.

Vanora's eyes soften even more.

"Poor girl," she repeats. "I'm going to fix her up something to eat. She's likely starving."

Having thus spoken, Vanora quickly disappears into the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Iseult had finally gotten thoroughly annoyed with the loose string on her sleeve, simply pulled one of her knives, and cut it, all the time wishing the string was that bloody Saxon's neck.

He took him from her. How dare he? What right did he have? It's not like Tristan had volunteered to fight for Rome. He had no choice. To Romans, Sarmatians are nothing more than slaves. They are below the mongrels that roam the streets, less than dirt even.

She is angry. Angry at Rome for making him serve their ridiculous empire; at the Saxon for killing him; and at herself for not having traveled here sooner.

As all of these thoughts and angry accusations fly on the inside, she remains impassive on the outside, the perfect mask of composure and calmness. Even as the pain and loss remerges, beating back her anger, she remains unmoved. The time for crying has passed and she must focus on why she had come here.

A plate of food and a cup of ale being placed in front of her returns her to the present, and she looks up to see a smiling Gawain.

"For you, milady."

She gives him one tired smile in return. He really has been nothing but kind to her and when they left the graveyard, she had just retreated inside of herself, practically ignoring both he and Bors. A little guilt washes over her as she thinks back on her behavior.

Seeing her smile, exhausted and strained though it is, he takes it as a good sign that she is trying to be nice and sits across from her.

He watches her as she looks down at the plate of food, seeming uncertain for a moment. After taking a few tentative bites before her hunger takes hold of her. It is not long at all before she finishes eating and pushes the plate off to the side, noting the surprised look on the golden-haired knight's face.

She laughs despite herself, the laugh not quite as offensive to her ears this time but still rather rough.

"Never seen a lady clean a plate so quickly, have you?"

He has to laugh, too, just because this is the closest she's been to good humor since the graveyard.

"I must say, I have not," he smiles good-naturedly before looking at her seriously. "How long has it been since you have had a good meal?"

She is silent for a moment, already straight-faced. "I ran out of rations several months ago and I've been having to search for food."

"I see."

"How much do I owe for the meal?"

"Vanora said that it's on the house."

He observes immediately that she wants to object, but he sees her fight down the action and instead looks down at the table. She seems to be deep in thought suddenly and he cannot help himself.

"What are you thinking?"

She looks up at him with a questioning gaze. "I was just wondering… Earlier, when I was sitting there at Tristan's grave… Bors walked over to another… If you don't mind me asking… Who was it?"

Gawain's gaze becomes heavy and tired once more.

"His name was Dagonet. He and Bors were close. The best of friends, much like me and Galahad are. Dagonet was an older brother or father figure to most of us, despite the fact that he was right around our ages. He was always level-headed. He kept all of us calm and kept us from being at each other's throats… He was usually quiet, but when he thought that he needed to say something to avoid a fight or to offer counsel, he would. Dagonet..." Gawain smiles sadly. "He was a gentle giant in everyday life, but once you got him out on the battlefield he was a true warrior. Yet, even on the battlefield or in situations of great distress, he always thought of his brothers first. That's how he died, you know. He saved all of us, and he paid the ultimate price for it."

"Then he should return as a great horse," she states sadly.

"Yes. He should," nods Gawain.

For several moments, quiet reigns at their table. Not an uncomfortable silence as it was before but a silence nonetheless.

Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending upon one's viewpoint—peace and quiet is not meant to be. No sooner than Iseult looks up, Bors had already sat down and was starting a conversation with Gawain.

Bors doesn't leave the table until much later, when Vanora drags him away, and by then, Iseult's eyes are half-closed, sleep trying to claim her at last.

'She must be exhausted,' thinks Gawain before gently touching her arm, trying to get her attention.

She doesn't jump or pull her knife. She had known what he was doing, even through her sleepy haze, and so she gives him her full, undivided attention.

"When I talked to Vanora earlier, she told me that most of the visitor's rooms are full but that there should be a few left empty so, if you are ready, we will go to find you a room to use for the duration of your stay."

"I am ready," she answers with a slight nod.

They stand and Gawain once more offers her his arm, and once more she fights back the urge to snap at him. It isn't as hard to do this time. The reaction is hindered by politeness, acceptance that this is just his way, and complete exhaustion.

Her arm linked in his, they leave the tavern.

It takes them quite a while to find a place with vacant rooms, but finally one is found. Wanting to assure himself that she makes it to the room and does not pass out on the way there, Gawain walks her to the door. Once there, she unlinks her arm from his and opens the door without delay. Before going in, she turns to him and smiles, not nearly so forced.

"Thank you."

He says nothing, but returns the smile and begins to walk away as the door starts to close.

"Gawain," her voice calls from behind him.

He turns to see Iseult leaning out of the reopened door.

"Yes, milady?"

"The answer is twelve."

He stares at her quizzically for a brief second, and then several very distinct expressions cross his face: understanding, surprise, embarrassment, and, quite possibly, fear. She smiles devilishly upon seeing his comprehension and then re-enters her room, securely closing the door behind her.

Gawain continues to gape at the door a moment before shaking his head and walking off toward his own quarters.


	4. Private Battles

**Chapter Three: Private Battles**

"You think I'm joking, lad, but she overheard Bors and me talking about our guess as to how many knives she had and answered the question."

Galahad's amusement is evident by the sparkling light in his eyes and the wide smile accompanied by a hearty laughter that fills the nearly empty tavern.

"It's not a joke," Gawain insists, beginning to become slightly irritated with the boy.

"But you'd just told me that she was distracted, not to mention a little ways behind you on a busy street. How could she have overheard?"

"The same way I heard you," answers a voice from immediately behind him.

He spins around to see the woman from last night of whom they had been speaking.

"And how's that?" he asks curiously.

"I have ears," she replies simply, sitting across from Gawain once more.

Galahad scowls the same way he would have had Tristan said something of similar effect to him in what seems, so long ago, but in reality is only a year and a half.

Seeing his face, Iseult smirks at Gawain, who laughs at both Galahad and the memories of Tristan's own similar retorts.

Gawain had already told Galahad about Iseult's friendship with Tristan back when the two were children, to which Galahad had nodded somewhat distractedly and changed the topic. Out of the three remaining knights, it is Galahad who has the most trouble dealing with the loss of the other three. Anytime one of them comes up in conversation, he will abruptly find something else to discuss. It is particularly obvious whenever Tristan is spoken of in any way.

As far as Gawain can tell, the boy seems to have some regrets about how he had sometimes spoken to the older knight. There were several times in Gawain's recollections that Galahad—made frustrated or angry from something the dark-humored knight said—had, for all practical purposes, told him that if someone killed him, the world would be a better place.

Of course, Tristan never thought anything of it, even laughed at it more often than not, but the pup did not seem able to get over what he had said in conjunction with what had happened in the final battle. Galahad had even, on the anniversary of the battle whilst standing amongst the graves, stated quietly to Gawain that he was wrong. Gawain had asked what he meant but had received no answer. In considering where they had been standing, however, he had decided that Galahad was commenting that he was wrong about if Tristan were gone.

In fact, Gawain does not think that anyone expected the effect losing Tristan would have on daily life. Who would have thought they would miss him beating them at knife-throwing and putting them in their place if they stepped out of line. They had known they would miss Dagonet and Lancelot as the two were obviously key people in their group, but he doubts _anyone_ anticipated what losing Tristan would do. He was just always that quiet presence that could be as intimidating as an entire forest full of Woads, but simultaneously, he was the group's rock, whether he wanted to be or not.

If you needed someone to talk to, you either went to Dagonet or Tristan—Dagonet if you wanted sympathy and good advice, Tristan if you were feeling masochistic or knew you needed to be brought back to your senses. Had a bad day and needed to vent? You told Tristan you wanted to spar and you were very shortly too exhausted to be angry anymore. He was also the one who kept everything in perspective, and was the one who watched over them. Since his death, Gawain had tried to step into that role, but there was simply no replacing the man.

Why no one had ever _truly_ noticed his importance before it was too late baffles Gawain even now, but the loss is definitely felt by all those remaining, even a year and a half later.

Regardless, he isn't entirely sure how the conversation had gone from the seriousness of Iseult being Tristan's friend to what it had been when Iseult had arrived. Of course, he had been talking to Galahad.

Iseult watches silently as Galahad and Gawain begin to exchange one-liners. She gets a distant look in her brown eyes. She never realized that she would miss his witticisms—his sharp, often dark and/or dry humor—but that is exactly what is happening now. What has been happening since he was taken away from their village.

Before she can think too long upon this topic, she is brought back to reality as the two knights cease their conversation and stand to greet someone. She turns in her seat to see a man with brown hair wearing Roman armor.

She glances at Gawain and Galahad and then back at the man as he walks closer. It doesn't take her long to put together that this man whom the knights greet so warmly is Artorius Castus—leader of the Sarmatian knights—and so she stands out of respect as well.

The man looks at her curiously before holding out his hand to her. Reaching out, she grasps the proffered hand firmly in as close to a warm greeting as she is willing to attempt. Catching the intended message, the man shakes her hand.

"Hello. You must be new here. My name is Artorius Castus, but I am called by Arthur. May I inquire as to who you are?"

Once more she straightens.

"I am Iseult, and I am a Sarmatian."

"A Sarmatian? What brings you here?" he asks, puzzled. He could honestly think of no reason for a free Sarmatian, a woman no less, to travel all the way to Briton.

"I came to visit a friend," she replies ambiguously, repeating what she had told Gawain and Bors yesterday. She is hoping that it can be left at that, but somehow she doubts that it will be.

Before Gawain and Galahad have a chance to signal him to stop, he asks his next question.

"Who is your friend? Perhaps I know whom you wish to visit."

"I have no doubt that you did."

His look is once more confused.

" 'Did'?"

"Yes. 'Did'. He was one of your knights. Tristan Drust. I came here to visit his grave."

Arthur pales slightly at her words, a sad look in his compassionate green eyes.

"I am very sorry. Tristan was the best scouts in Briton and my friend. He fought bravely in battle against Cerdic, the Saxon king, but he fell to him here, at Badon Hill."

Though Gawain had already told her this, she does not interrupt the man. She could not have interrupted even if she had wanted to for she is staring into two pools of sorrow. Pools that looked much too old to belong to the owner. Profound, ancient eyes.

"It is not your fault, so you should not apologize," she answers simply, slightly unnerved by his intense eyes, his intense stare. It is as if he suffers everyday for those who had died serving him.

He does not tell her that it is his fault. Does not tell her that if he had simply cut his opponents down faster, if he had run just a little faster, her friend might yet be alive. No, he does not tell her of his own private battles with nameless, faceless enemies who assault him with these thoughts either.

Instead, he simply nods sadly to her and then turns to his knights and asks them for some assistance with moving something. They agree and bid Iseult good day, leaving her standing alone.

She is overjoyed. She had thought she would never be able to get up from sitting with the two. She has to get up, though. She has to begin her search now. She has to.

She has been searching most of the day, but she simply cannot find him. Where does Merlin hide?

Finally she finds herself by a stream at the edge of the forest, frustrated and angry. She had known it would not be easy to find him, but she had never dreamed it would be this difficult.

Unexpectedly, the ground rises up to meet her, and as she looks down to her feet, she realizes she has tripped over a rock no bigger than the size of her palm. Finally reaching the end of her rope, she stands, picks the rock up, and pitches it as hard as she can into the stream, a large splash following. Unable to hold it in any longer, she drops to her knees, folds in on herself, rests her head on her knees, and cries.

'It's hopeless,' she tells herself then speaks aloud. "I just need to accept the facts. I have come all this way for naught. He's gone. Even if I somehow find Merlin, his magics might do _nothing_! He might be naught more than a faerie tale the older knights told to us children to scare us," she spits bitterly, tears freely falling from her eyes.

"What know you do of magicks?" comes a broken question from behind her.

She spins, dagger ready and mentally berates herself for leaving her sword on her horse.

"Peace be to you, child. No harm of you is meant," says the voice again. This time, though, she can see the speaker. Dark hair, wild beard, and three triangle markings on his forehead.

"You are Merlin," she breathes, slowly lowering her dagger.

The wise-looking man nods staring at her with saddened eyes. "Of me you my magicks seek?"

Understanding him is difficult, but after thinking of what he has said, she realizes what he has asked her. Unable to force herself to speak, she simply nods instead.

"I am sorry, child. No more magick of me than there is of you."

"You lie," she says, no change in her face or her tone as she finds her voice. His eyebrows raise. "You may fool the others, but I can feel it rolling off of you. Magics. Ancient wisdom. It surrounds you, is you. It permeates the very air, leaving it touched by these magics, shimmering with power. You will deny this?"

He seems surprised, but then sighs and looks at her questioningly. "What wish you of me?"

"Merlin. My friend, my best, only, and dearest friend fell at the Saxon king's hand here at Badon Hill. Please. Please tell me there is some way, any way at all to reverse this fate. For him to be saved. Please, if there is any way, help me. For if there is not, I will straightway depart from this miserable existence."

The Merlin stares at her, his gaze a hundred, no, a thousand times more powerful than Arthur's stare. "Child, of what you ask… it is much."

"You are my only hope! Whatever I must do, I shall not hesitate," she desperately pleads.

His eyes continue to bore into her own, his unfathomable eyes penetrating through to her very soul. Finally, he closes his eyes sadly and nods.

"You love him."

Iseult can say nothing to him. He is her last hope. If he decides not to help her or cannot…

"Of nothing I know for _you_ to do," he says and for her, times stops all around her except for what he now opens his mouth to say. "The course of fate is its own. To change outcome is hard to say, but think not I do not see your love for him. You, I know, would do what you could for him. Know this to you, of you I will help what you ask."

"Y-you will?"

He smiles kindly and nods. "Few of today my magicks sense they. Fate must for you much in store have. Have you one chance. Too many times change of Fate is reckless, even once dangerous. But, you I will one chance give. If happening is not what you wish, it cannot be helped. One chance. Understand you?"

She nods fervently, a genuine smile spreading across her face. The Merlin returns it and then says, "Have you good luck, child. May things turn them as you wish."

That said, he raises his staff into the air and then there is nothing.


	5. The Tavern

**Chapter Four: The Tavern**

It has been months now since she had left her village to find him, but it is worth it. She is now no more than minutes from her destination.

She looks down at her normally strong wrists now abnormally thin. They look like the wrists of a child and yet, she knows them to be her own. She has become gaunt from scarcity of food and the pace of her journey, but it will not matter soon. Soon she will be with him. She had left the village just in time. This is the day his freedom should be given to him. Fifteen years. It has been such a long time.

She cannot help but wonder how much he has changed. What if she cannot recognize him? What if he does not recognize her?

As she spurs her horse to carry her just a little faster towards where he is, she pushes these thoughts from her mind. Upon reaching the top of the hill, she sees it. Hadrian's Wall. Its enormity fills her with wonder but she cannot pause now. Not when she is so close to seeing him once more.

The night sky is beautiful, even here, the gentle mists stirring about the hills. The whole land looks as though enchanted. Green and beautiful. No wonder the natives fight so hard to repossess it.

Within a half a mile of the wall, she hears a shout and the gates of the wall open, a lone rider leaving the fort to meet her.

She slows her horse to a halt and the man does the same once close enough to speak.

"What station are you?" he asks, voice clear and strong.

Even though her night vision is excellent, the only traits she can truly make of the man is that he is huge and that he speaks in the language of Rome but that it is not his first language.

"I am Sarmatian," she replies. "I mean no harm."

"What is your name, milady?" he questions, his voice softening considerably, his form relaxing slightly.

"My name is Iseult, and what of yours?" she smiles into the darkness.

She could almost have sworn that he returns the smile before he replies, "Dagonet."

He spurs his horse forward and turns to align himself and his horse beside her, and it is then that she realizes how tall he really is.

She, herself, is considered quite tall being 5'10", but this man would easily tower over her.

"What is your business here?"

"I am visiting a friend."

He nods. "Well, if you will, follow me and I will get you inside the gates."

"Certainly."

Without so much as another word, they both ride towards the gates, and once inside, the gates close. She glances at them and then returns to looking straight ahead of her.

A little ways in, she catches sight of a hill with swords sticking out of the ground. Even as they pass, she turns slightly to look back at the odd sight.

Dagonet, having been watching the strange woman out of the corner of his eye, turns to see what has caught her attention and then looks forward again.

"The graves of knights who have died in service to Rome," he answers her unasked question.

She turns back and looks at him. Now that they grow closer to the torches, she can see the look in his eyes. Pain and loss. Pain and loss the likes she has never known. Pain at having lost many friends, maybe even family. His eyes seem almost tortured looking and she turns away, feeling as if she has inadvertently trespassed somehow.

The rest of the ride is silent. They pass through the opening of the village and then he slows his horse to a graceful stop, her following his example.

Looking to her, he begins to speak. "If you wish, you can follow me to the stables and from there I can walk with you to the tavern so that you may eat."

She nods, grateful to the kind man, not nearly as wary as she would normally be when dealing with a stranger. She had learned early on in her village that very few people should be trusted. For some reason, however, she feels that this man may be one of those few.

Once more immersed in silence, they ride to the stables, the man bringing her to the common stables before riding himself over to the stable that he had told her is reserved for the knights.

She watches as he rides off, and then dismounts, leading her horse to an empty stall. Once done, she unsaddles and unbridles the wondrous creature and begins to talk to the mare while brushing out her coat.

"Yes. I am sure you are happy to be here also. Yeah. You've been a good girl, Mairete," she murmurs softly, putting down some sweet hay and continuing to brush her as the horse eats.

"You can tell what kind of person someone is by how they care for their horses," comes a voice, startling her from her thoughts.

Her reflexes immediately kick in and she spins, dagger at the ready, but she relaxes when she sees the owner of the voice. Dagonet.

"I'm sorry. You startled me," she apologizes, quickly replacing the dagger in its sheath.

"Not a problem. Are you ready to go?"

"Yes."

She picks up her small saddlebag and throws it over her shoulder, her other shoulder holding her quiver and bows.

She watches as the man's eyebrows raise and then Dagonet and she begin to walk.

"You said you are Sarmatian, yes?"

She nods in response.

His observant eyes take in her armor and her visible weapons: a sword on her left hip; a composite bow over her shoulder and two quivers, both full of arrows, one strapped at her waist, the other slung over her shoulder; and then there is the one knife that is visible. How many others she has hidden on her, he does not even dare guess.

She watches as he looks at her. There's nothing wrong with his gaze. It is not like those Romans who had stared at her as she and Dagonet had walked by them. The Romans had been appraising her lustily, just as she is certain they look at any other woman.

But Dagonet, his stare is merely the calculating gaze of a seasoned warrior, examining a potential threat.

'Good then, he does not trust me anymore than I trust him,' she smiles to herself.

Wanting to be on equal footing, she begins examining him as well. A knife hidden in his right boot and a sword hung on a thick leather belt at his waist is all that she sees. He has already put most of his weapons away prior to retrieving her from the stables then. She notes, however, that his burly arms could easily be weapons in and of themselves, and with that observation follows another. He truly does tower over her. He must be at least 6'4", a giant among all the Romans who are generally much shorter. Why, even she would probably be taller than several of them.

When he finally realizes that he has been staring at her in his knight mindset, he laughs, a deep rumble of a sound.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to stare. I hope I did not upset you."

A strangely familiar sneer crosses her face. "You did no such thing. I knew what you were doing."

He raises an eyebrow, silently asking her to continue.

"You were tallying my weapons. Probably trying to determine how many you cannot see as well."

"Very observant of you. Do you mind my asking why you carry them and why you wear such armor?"

"Not at all," she replies, straightening. "I am a Sarmatian warrior."

"I thought as much," he nods. "Well, seeing as you are carrying so much, I will show you to a spare traveler's room first where you may put down your things."

"Thank you," she replies, glad that she would not have to carry all of her equipment around with her.

As he walks in the direction of a group of buildings, she follows quickly, not wanting to be left behind.

It does not take long for Dagonet to locate a room that the woman can use, and he patiently waits outside as she goes in and shuts the door.

When she emerges only a few minutes from when she had gone inside, she is no longer wearing her armor, allowing him a good look at her clothing. She wears a loose fit, long sleeve tunic that almost goes down to her knees.

The tunic is crafted with slits on each side, probably for ease of movement in battle and while horseback riding. The slits stop at the belt fastened around her waist, from which her sword hangs. Under the tunic, she wears somewhat loose breeches that tuck into her leather boots, which he notices have a few compartments in the tops of them. Yes. She definitely has concealed weaponry on her, most likely knives. He cannot see any of them, however, a good sign that she knows what she's doing.

"Are you ready?" he asks, forcing himself from his observations.

She nods once more. "Yes."

He starts into a brisk walk and she follows, staying only barely behind him.

For lack of anything better to do at the moment, she tries to take in some details about her guide beyond where his weapons may be found.

Tall, broad shoulders. Strong jawline. Really short cut hair and nothing more than stubble on his face. A tan tunic with long sleeves that tuck into black gauntlets almost reaches up to his elbows. There's also, of course, the sword that he is still carrying and the knife that is still hidden in his boot. There is nothing new there, but she does realize that, even just walking, he seems as though he is tired. She cannot even imagine what he's been through in his years of service to Rome.

Suddenly, she wonders if Tristan will be this way. Tired. Or will he be angry? Indifferent? Then terror grips her. What if he has fallen? What if he is one of the knights buried in that cemetery?

_No_. She would have known if he had died. She would have felt it… Wouldn't she?

"We're here," Dagonet's voice comes, breaking her from her morbid thoughts as he turns to look at her. "If you'll excuse me."

She nods and he walks off toward the bar where another man stands. He's a big, bulky man who looks oddly familiar, but she knows she has never seen him before in her life. No one could possibly forget that brick wall. And yet…

Suddenly, the brick wall pulls a woman holding a baby to the middle of the tavern and people start chanting 'sing, sing, sing' and someone else calls, 'sing of home'.

As soon as the woman begins her song, the whole place falls eerily silent, as if her voice puts a spell over everyone within reach of it.

Of course, home means nothing to Iseult as it is currently. Not without him.

So as the woman sings, she scans the crowd for him, but what does he look like now? The last she had seen him, he was a boy of sixteen. He would certainly look much different now.

'_easily six foot with broad shoulders… beard… three or four warriors braids… unruly strands… watchful…'_

Where had that come from? It sounds so familiar, but where would she would have heard it? Who had said it to her? Was it merely imagination?

And then all of these thoughts disappear as she sees him. It must be him. He is the only one in the crowd with their village's tattoos on his chiseled cheekbones, and, oddly enough, he perfectly matches the description.

She almost wants to cry. Not sad tears, but happy ones. She has found him.

He looks so different, yet so uniquely him. Shoulder length hair. Tanned weathered skin. Watchful eyes.

Suddenly, he looks up, his watchful eyes stopping when he makes eye contact with her. He sees her tattoos, her birthmark. Almost imperceptibly, his eyes widen and he raises a hand to rub them in disbelief.

He can't help but think he's drunk just a little too much ale. She cannot possibly be here, can she?

He finally looks back up and realizes that, no, she cannot be here. She is in Sarmatia, waiting for his return, or maybe she had even forgotten about him. The thought stings, but he knows it might be true. Whatever the case, though, she cannot be here.

'Merely a trick of the ale. Nothing more,' he thinks, looking at the empty space where he thought he had seen her.

She watches from the shadows as he cuts more apple slices with his knife, eyes downcast and faraway looking.

How she wishes she could have run up to him right then, but she does not want to create a scene. Neither of them would have appreciated that. When she had seen her opportunity upon him reaching up to rub his eyes, she had moved quickly, yet without notice, into the shadows and closer to a group of people. He would not see her here.

"Arthur!" yells a voice, breaking her from her thoughts. Then two more voices call out the same name and she turns to see a man with brown hair wearing Roman armor. His face, no, his eyes, look ancient, as if they'd seen too much, and she notices that they seem so out of place on his face.

He seems undecided in this moment, as if he wants to run far, far away, be anywhere but here, and yet, he also seems so horribly, horribly sad.

But, the knights do not see it and they walk to him with happy faces. All except two. Tristan, whose face is indifferent, and then another man with curly, dark brown hair. Maybe that man senses it.

"You're not completely Roman, yet, right?" asks one of them. By his face, he seems the youngest of the six.

"Knights. Brothers-in-arms. Your courage has been tested beyond all limits."

"Yes," the wall murmurs, nodding his head.

"But I must ask you now for one further trial," he begins and Iseult's eyes worriedly flash to Tristan.

He seems to be one of the first to understand. She sees him look to where she had been standing when he'd seen her earlier, and his eyes look so tired. So very tired.

She can do nothing but watch him. Her eyes refusing to leave his face. He has his mask on.

Even when he was younger, he had a mask. It kept the other children away and the fear brought on by it usually kept her safe when the other children would try to hurt her. Tristan would appear with his mask on, and they would quickly leave. Even then he had been intimidating, but not towards her. Never towards her.

He had never been what one would call 'talkative', but then again, neither was she. They both upheld a philosophy of, if what you think about saying won't improve the silence, don't say it. This eliminated the need for idle chitchat, but whenever the two of them did talk, it was a conversation worth having. They trusted each other like no other person in the village. She always knew that he would protect her, no matter what.

She never could understand why he had chosen to befriend her, to protect her, to teach her to be able to defend herself. It would have been so much easier for him if he had either sided with the rest of the village or remained neutral, indifferent. Maybe it was because their situations had been so similar. Both orphaned at a young age. Both shunned by their peers, for different reasons, of course, but still shunned.

"I am a free man!" someone bellows and she forces herself to look from Tristan to the owner of the voice as a baby begins crying. The bulky wall of a man is the source of the sound.

'—_Bors. I am sure he meant you no insult._'

Where is all of this coming from? She shakes her head, trying to clear it just as the man, Bors, yells again with tears in his eyes.

"I will choose my own fate!"

"Yeh, yeh," says a voice and she snaps back to look at him. "We're all going to die some day," he shrugs. "If it is a death from Saxon hands that frightens you," he begins, raising the knife with a slice of apple on it to his mouth as he sneers, "stay home."

She watches him as he calmly eats the apple slice straight from the knife. Processing his words, she cannot help but shiver. Death from Saxon hands. Even in her homeland, the Saxons were spoken of in whispers.

"Listen! If you are so eager to die," the young one yells, pointing angrily at Tristan, "then you can die right now!"

That said, he lunges at him, the only thing stopping him is the curly-haired man's arm catching him and pushing him back.

"Enough!" the man exclaims, clearly not happy about what he was hearing but not wanting an all out brawl to erupt from it.

"I've got something to live for!" the boy yells at Arthur, at anyone who will listen.

She sees Tristan look at him disapprovingly as he calmly continues to slice the apple in his hand.

"The Romans have broken their word," begins a familiar voice and she looks to see that it is Dagonet who has spoken. "We have the word of Arthur. That is good enough. I'll prepare."

'…_always level-headed…_'

Once more she shakes her head. She must be going insane. Hearing all these words cannot be normal.

"Bors, you coming?" Dagonet asks, hand on the hilt of his sword as he walks away from the group.

Bors looks as though, any moment now, he'll break down, but refuses to let the others see. He is too strong for that. "Of course I'm coming! Can't let you go on your own! You'll get killed!" he bellows angrily.

Once more, Iseult's gaze shifts to Tristan and she watches him as he leaves, following Dagonet out of the tavern.

"I'm just saying what you're all thinking!"

Iseult sees the dark-haired knight appear to be barely restraining himself and losing patience quickly, as if anyone else having one more obvious and stupid outburst will send him over the edge. Thankfully, Bors leaves, not another word uttered to any of the knights.

Movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention and she sees a man with long blond hair walk back over to rejoin the remaining knights. He takes a swig of his drink and lightly clears his throat.

This man looks even more familiar than Bors had. She can only wonder why they both seem so familiar to her. Especially this man.

"And you Gawain?"

The blond man looks thoughtful a moment then nods.

"I am with you," he answers, before looking at the youngest knight. "Galahad as well."

The man's voice brings on an onslaught of words. Things she has never heard before, yet has.

'_I believe you have threatened a woman. A beautiful Sarmatian woman at that, if my eyes do not deceive me. I told you they exist…_'

'Please excuse my friend. He can be crude at times. He obviously doesn't know the difference between what is acceptable to speak of in the company of men, and what is polite in the company of women.'

'_It grows late. We should get you to the villa…_ '

'_How long has it been since you had a good meal?... _'

'_What are you thinking?... _'

'_You think I'm joking, lad, but she overheard…_'

The force of these half-remembrances leaves her leaning against a wall for support. Thankfully no one pays her any heed and she manages to force herself upright once more. Why does this keep happening?

She realizes upon looking around that the knights have left and that Arthur is leaving, the curly-haired knight not far behind him.

She must know more of what this mission entails. She knows that it will be dangerous. They spoke of Saxons, but she knows she hadn't paid close enough attention when Arthur had been explaining the mission to the knights. She could have missed anything.

Without a word, she follows after the black-haired knight, careful not to make a sound. Years of practice had silenced her steps and sharpened her eyes to be able to perceive when the one she is following might turn. Every time he would begin to glance over his shoulder, she would dodge behind anything that would hide her, and then once he had turned back to watch where he was walking, she would continue after him.

She follows him in this manner until they reach the knight's stables and he goes inside. She dares not go much further, instead approaching one of the outer walls and placing her ear to it, listening.

"Why do you always talk to your God and not to me?" begins a voice different than the man called Arthur, and she realizes that it must be the curly-haired knight she had seen enter the building. "Or pray, to whomever you pray, that we don't cross the Saxons."

Her thoughts threaten to take over once more, but she forces herself to listen. She must know what the details of the mission are.

"My faith is what protects me, Lancelot. Why do you challenge this?" asks the familiar voice of Arthur.

"I don't like anything that puts a man on his knees."

'So then his name must be Lancelot,' she thinks before mentally berating herself for missing the first part of what Arthur had just said.

"… God he trusts. Without faith, without belief in something, what are we?"

"To try to get past the Woads in the North is insanity," Lancelot says in answer.

"Them we've fought before."

"Not north of the wall! … How many Saxons? Hm? How many?" he asks. He receives no answer and after a moment, he continues. "Tell me. Do you believe in this mission?"

"These people need our help. It is our duty—"

"I don't care about your charge, and I don't give a _damn _about Romans, Britons, or this island! If you desire to spend eternity in this place, Arthur, so be it! But suicide cannot be chosen for another!"

'Suicide? The mission would be that dangerous? Tristan…' Iseult thinks, her mind once more wandering before brought back by Lancelot yelling, completely enraged.

"NO! I choose life, and freedom for myself and the men!"

"How many times in battle have we snatched victory from the jaws of defeat? Outnumbered, outflanked, yet still we triumph. With you at my side, we can do so again. Lancelot. We are knights. What other purpose do we serve if not for such a cause?"

"Arthur," come Lancelot's voice. He sounds so long-suffering, as if talking to a child who dreams of flying. "You fight for a world that will never exist. Never. There will always be a battlefield." He is silent again, but when he speaks next he sounds so defeated, resigned. "I will die in battle. Of that, I am certain. And hopefully, a battle of my choosing… But… If it be _this_ one, grant me a favor. Don't bury me in our sad little cemetery. Burn me. Burn me and cast my ashes to a strong east wind."

There is no answer, but Iseult hears footsteps coming towards the door. She quickly hurries around the corner and back the way she had come, and does not stop walking until she reaches the room that Dagonet had found for her. Opening the door, she walks inside, locks it behind her, and collapses on the bed.

Her thoughts are so jumbled. So confused.

A suicide mission. That is the mission with which Rome broke its promise? It is most likely the most dangerous mission they have ever gone on.

Suddenly, she hates Rome even more than she normally does. What if… what if none of the men come back from the mission? What if _he_ doesn't? What if she waits until they return and _he_ is not among them?

No. She is through with waiting. She will do so no longer. Tomorrow, it will not be only the knights who are leaving. For, if he leaves, she will follow.


	6. Prove It

**Chapter Five: Prove It**

The first rays of the morning light find Arthur and his knights in the stable. Each knight is finishing the final touches of the preparation for their journey ahead of them, each with very different thoughts to mull over.

As he sharpens his sword and cleans it, he has to admit, his mind, several times since he had left the tavern last night, had wondered back to what he thought he had seen. Is that really what she looks like now? It had looked so much like her, yet somehow different. Older, of course, but there had been something else, too. It had not been so much how she looked physically as how she appeared. Stronger, perhaps?

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. He has not thought of her in some time and now is not the time to do so. He cannot allow himself to get distracted like this. Arthur and his brothers will need him more than ever on this mission. He has to keep a clear head if he is to guide them through the days to follow. Distractions will get them all killed.

He continues to clean the curved sword of his homeland until it is spotless and then sheaths it, still at war with himself.

Just as he finally banishes all thoughts of last night from his mind, he hears the sound of a horse coming toward the stables. He closes his eyes and listens carefully, relatively certain that the horse will continue past, probably a messenger of some sort. To his surprise, though, the noise stops just in front of the stables. Opening his eyes, he turns and looks out the stable doors.

It can't be. It can't.

Once more he rubs his eyes, wondering what is wrong with him. When he finally looks back up he fully expects to see nothing once more, but nothing has changed.

Without so much as a glance at this fellow knights, he walks out of the stable, leaving his brothers and leader thoroughly puzzled and exchanging confused glances. They follow him outside and stop slightly behind Tristan as he stands a distance away from the rider and the horse.

He's squinting at the rider and, to the knights and Arthur who know him better than anyone, they know that he's analyzing her and taking in every detail from her brown hair and brown eyes to her leather armor.

It has to be her. He can see the birthmark on the right side of her face. It can't be anyone except her. She had traveled all the way here to Briton? But why? Why would she travel here? She is free.

He allows his eyes to wander over her. She's gotten taller since he'd last seen her. He would not be surprised if she is almost his height now. That isn't all that has changed since he was forced to leave, though. Even with her armor on, he can't help but notice that she has filled out since the day that he had left, fifteen years ago.

He involuntarily remembers back to the day when he had left. He had been sixteen, a year older than most of the recruits. What he remembers is the look that had been in her eyes right before he left. He couldn't put a name to that look back then, and even now, he does not know a word for it.

He cannot ponder that for long, however, because immediately his mind drifts to what else had happened.

He still cannot figure out, even as he looks at her now, why she had done what she had that day. It had confused him greatly. What had confused all the more was that she had proceeded to push him down to the ground and run away from him.

"Tristan…" the rider breathes, her voice a mixture of both disbelief and relief as she realizes that he recognizes her.

Her voice snaps him from his thoughts and he returns to his cold, brutal, unforgiving reality. One in which she does not belong.

"Why are you here?"

Her change in expression is minute, but the more observant ones of the group catch the small downturn to the corner of her lips and the slight hardening of her eyes.

"That's some way to greet a friend after fifteen years, but that's obviously not the matter at hand. I am here because I plan to accompany you on this mission which you were given at the tavern last night."

'So she was there,' a voice in the back of his mind says before he silences it.

His normally indifferent, emotionless eyes take on a slightly different look, almost entirely unnoticed.

"Absolutely not."

"And why not?" she questions, her chin tilting up ever so slightly.

Tristan knows this to be a sign that she is going to fight.

'Well, if it's a fight she wants, she'll bloody well get one,' he thinks.

"You are not trained."

"You trained me yourself."

"I never taught you more than the basics. You don't know how to defend yourself in battle."

He sees her eyes narrow, clearly angry beyond being able to even attempt to feign indifference now.

'Women. They have no control over their emotions.'

"You've been gone fifteen years. You don't know _what_ I've learned," she practically growls. "Galvin, himself, took up my training when you left."

Tristan does not allow his surprise to change his demeanor. Instead, knowing that their argument is not only getting nowhere, but also costing valuable time, he turns to Arthur.

"You won't let her go," he says with the same measured calm he would have normally.

It is not a question, but a demand.

"Who is she?" Arthur asks confusedly, staring between the two.

To both Tristan and Arthur's surprise, it is one of the knights who speaks.

"Her name is Iseult. She arrived here last night in full battle armor and with all her weapons either on her horse or on her person. I showed her around," says Dagonet, "and I know for a fact that she's at least quick with a knife. She pulled one on me when I startled her."

Tristan instantly shoots Dag a look that clearly conveys the word 'traitor'.

"Really now?" asks Lancelot, quirking an eyebrow at the woman and then Dag. "And how long did you remain in her company?"

Dagonet's disapproving look, coupled with Tristan's arctic glare, tells him that now is not the time.

"Arthur," begins Dag. "Perhaps we should give them a moment to talk."

"Perhaps that would be for the best," nods Arthur as he turns to continue preparing in the stables, Dag corralling the rest of the knights back inside as well.

Immediately once they are inside and out of earshot, Tristan spins around to Iseult.

"What are you thinking?"

She knows him well enough to know that were he anyone else, this comment would sound seething, but she doesn't particularly care at the moment. She isn't really all that happy either.

She hadn't expected him to be happy about the idea of her coming, but she hadn't expected him to be so vehemently opposed to it either. Well, as vehement as Tristan can possibly be.

"That you still have yet to say anything anywhere resembling friendly. So far, you have not so much as asked how I fare after my journey or how I have been these past fifteen years."

"Why do you think you can come on this mission?"

"I am a full Sarmatian warrior."

"This is a suicide mission."

"All the more reason for me to go!" she proclaims before leaning down in the saddle to look him in the eye and then lowering her voice. "Do you honestly believe I will watch you leave once more for battle and I will stay behind? You obviously have forgotten much about me."

"I did not ask for, nor do I need, your help, _Iseult_."

The way that he says her name is biting, but she will not show him its affect. That is what he wants from her right now, for her to show a weakness. She will not play along in his game.

"And, yet, here I am, and I refuse to watch you go off into battle without me. I've dutifully waited back home, not knowing, for long enough. Now I am here, and while it was not my original intent for coming, I will go with you all on this last mission. Besides, you are reduced to six knights and Arthur. You need as many people as you can get."

"Trained warriors."

"I am trained. What of this concept are you not understanding, Tristan? I will go with you, whether you like the idea or not."

"You won't," he says with a tone of finality as he turns and begins to walk back into the stables.

"You'll not end this conversation in such a childish manner, nor forbid me from choosing my own fate. I am ready for this and have been for some time."

He halts, dead in his tracks and, without turning, answers quietly, "Prove it."

"Excuse me?" she asks, not having heard him.

He turns to look at her, his mask still in place, but his eyes betraying his determination.

"Prove it to me. Face me with your sword. If you are ready, it should not be a problem.

Iseult's face becomes immediately impassive and cold as she dismounts and turns to face him.

"Fine."

Upon hearing the sound of blades being drawn, Arthur and his knights all rush outside.

"Tristan! What in bloody hell are you doing?" exclaims Gawain, eyes wide.

The man in question shrugs nonchalantly.

"She thinks she is ready for the Woads and the Saxons."

"So… what? You're testing her?" Galahad half yells, horrified by the prospect.

Seeing there would be no response to Galahad's question, Gawain speaks up again.

"Tristan, you could hurt her."

"Better my hand than some Saxon or Woad," he mutters under his breath.

Not hearing an answer, Lancelot spins around to Arthur.

"Are you honestly going to allow this insanity?"

Arthur looks thoughtful for a moment, looking at the set face of the woman who becomes slightly nervous under his gaze.

"She wishes to accompany us; I must know that she is capable," Arthur says slowly, as if trying to talk himself into the idea. Lancelot opens his mouth to protest, but the man cuts him off, this time speaking more forcefully. "Lancelot, I cannot bring her into this without knowing if she can at the least defend herself." Without giving Lancelot a chance to argue anymore, he turns to the knight who had showed her around last night. "Dagonet, I want you to step in at which point you feel it is necessary."

Dagonet nods his understanding and steps forward to be easier able to intervene, then nods to both Tristan and Iseult.

Almost immediately, the two of them focus on each other, watching intently for any sign of aggressive movement as they circle.

Just when the onlookers think it safe to blink, Tristan takes the first swing, hoping to catch her by surprise and throw her off. Instead, she jumps back, the swing glancing off of her sword.

Tristan pulls back, returning to his original stance as if analyzing anew, trying to pinpoint any sluggishness or weakness on her part. Not finding one, he tries again, this time trying an overhead maneuver, forcing her to bring her sword up to block. For a moment, he puts all his strength into trying to force her blade down, and, while it does have some effect, it does not do quite what he had intended. Without a second thought, he slides the sword away from the contact and spins, trying to hit her currently unguarded side.

Once more, she blocks, having anticipated his next move due to remembering his own training of her.

'_If an enemy tries to strike you high and you block, they will most often try to use your block to attack an unprotected area, like your leg or side. They are counting on you to be slow adjusting. You cannot be slow._'

Tristan breaks contact and backs up once more, debating his next move. He decides and immediately goes into action, becoming serious. He will have to concentrate hard not to seriously hurt her.

This thought in mind, he goes into what many have named the 'Dance of Death' or the 'Deathdance'. His movements become fluid, easily flowing from one move to the next when Iseult would somehow manage to block the preceding blow.

Inevitably, though, one of the moves lands solidly, slicing her left arm, cutting her sleeve and the skin under it.

She flinches and grits her teeth but sends Dagonet a warning look when he starts to step forward. He stops in his tracks and steps back once more as she returns her full attention to Tristan.

Before Tristan has time to retry his prior success, Iseult goes on the offensive. Her blows come is such quick succession that even Tristan is forced to keep moving. Her moves aren't always fluid, nor are they particularly strong, but her light blade allows moving quickly to be her specialty. Galvin had easily seen, during his teaching her, that she would not be exceptionally strong or agile, but she was certainly fast.

Dagonet, who had witnessed her reflexes first hand, has to admit to being pleasantly surprised. What she lacks in strength and fluidity, she makes up for with speed and an ability to quickly adjust. Dag can't but think that if it was a lesser swordsman she was fighting, she would have landed several hits by now. Probably nothing fatal, nor a great deal of hits, but enough to start wearing down an enemy. Because it is Tristan she is fighting, though, all but one of her attacks has been either deflected or dodged. The only one that had landed had only barely grazed the scout's left hand.

Then, the unexpected happens very suddenly.

Iseult sees an opening. Tristan's stance had widened slightly during the fight. Just enough for her to get away with the move. Exactly in the middle of Tristan taking a step back, she kicks out and sees Tristan's eyes widen slightly in surprise.

She knows very well what her opponent, and the knights, will expect from a woman intent on winning. Instead of doing what they believe and/or fear her doing—that which she had never had any intention of doing in the first place—she makes contact with his ankle, hooks her foot behind it, and yanks back.

The effect is immediate as she and Tristan both crash to the dirt, her having been pulled down due to him catching her wrist in his fall. When they hit the ground, they impact with enough force that both of their swords clatter away. Without a second's hesitation, they roll away from each other quickly and in one smooth draw and lunge motion, each has a dagger at the other's neck, touching, but not cutting.

"Enough!" Dag shouts. He takes two quick strides and roughly separates the two of them.

They both willingly step back another step and put their knives away, never taking their glares from one another. The battle is still ongoing, except now it is a battle of wills and an unspoken argument.

Finally, Tristan frowns.

"Fine. If Arthur says you can go, go. Get yourself killed. Obviously, your life does not matter to you, so why should I care?"

Having thus spoken, he retrieves his blade and stalks off, disappearing within the stable doors.

Everyone—the knights, Arthur, and Iseult—watches after him.

Lancelot is the first to speak.

"It is true that you have skill with a blade but what of battle? It is different there. Have you ever _actually_ killed someone?"

She snaps her attention from the stable doors to the dark-haired knight.

"I have defended my village for seven years. I am no ignorant, nor innocent."

A loud snort issues from the barn, obviously from a rather darkly amused knight, but it is ignored.

"Can you protect yourself?" asks Arthur. "You cannot rely on my men to help you."

She sneers, a facial expression that already seems familiar to Gawain for some reason.

"I do not require their help in battle. I can protect myself. The last fifteen years have left me with no choice."

"Well then… Taking into account the fact that you kept pace with Tristan for the most part…" he stops and examines her, starting over. "I suspect that your strong desire to go will allow my answer to change nothing, yes?"

For the first time the knights had seen, Iseult smirks mischievously and shakes her head.

"I would follow after you all left."

Arthur nods, as if having expected her answer.

"I thought as much. I suppose, under the circumstances, I haven't a choice. I would rather you travel with us than follow after. You may come, but you must obey my commands just as my knights do. You cannot act solely of your own accord and disregard what I say. If I say something or issue an order, it is for good reason. Am I understood?"

She nods in way of response and Arthur returns the gesture.

"Very well. The knights and I will be ready to depart shortly," he says turning to walk inside.

All the knights save for three give her strange looks. One of the three, Lancelot, winks at her to which she rolls her eyes. There had been men like him in her village and she refuses to fall for his tactics. Dagonet's look, on the other hand, is a kind smile whereas Gawain's eyes search her face, trying to find a reason to explain away the vague familiarity that he has felt towards her since he had first seen her.

She watches as they disappear inside before picking up and sheathing her own blade and mounting her horse. Just as she is fixing to look at her arm, she stops, seeing several men enter the stables. Four to be exact. Two Roman guards and two men dressed well, obviously important people. Her eyes do not leave the doors until the two guards and the most extravagantly dressed man leave the stable.

Once the group is out of sight, she covertly examines her left arm. He had gotten her good. No doubt it would scar. Not that she really minds. It will match some of her others.

Instinctively, she reaches up and brushes a finger over her left temple, tracing the scar there, hidden by her thick hair. Realizing what she will start thinking upon, she quickly returns her hand to the reigns.

Hearing a horse, she looks to the doors, and she smiles at the rider as he stops his horse alongside her.

"You really did do well against Tristan," says the man with his deep, soft voice.

"Thank you, Dagonet, but I couldn't have done all that well," she replies, lifting her arm at the shoulder and then lowering it again.

The corners of Dag's mouth turn down ever so slightly as he looks at the still faintly bleeding gash.

"May I?" he asks, holding his hand out in an offer to look at the cut. Seeing that she is about to protest, he holds his other hand up to stop her. "The others are still inside finishing preparations, and that wound needs to be cleaned."

She looks at the big man, as if to argue, but realizes that he is right. After glancing at the stable doors once more, she places her arm in his offered hand.

He blinks for a moment, clearly surprised that she had complied without much argument, but he quickly recovers and spreads open the tear in her sleeve to examine the wound.

It's not all that deep, but Tristan had obviously been trying to send a message. Her arm will no doubt scar no matter how well it is tended to.

He sighs and then looks up from the wound to her face.

"Can you roll your sleeve up?"

"No," she says and this time it is her turn to silence him, "but I can do something else."

That said, she reaches with her other hand to the seam in her left sleeve, undoes a knot, and pulls at the bottom of the sleeve until there is a sizeable gap at the elbow.

Seeing Dagonet's questioning look, she elaborates.

"I find it useful to be able to wear long sleeves or short sleeves depending on the weather without having to carry so much. I made my shirts so that I can undo the elbow seam, which allows me to detach from the elbow down in warm weather."

Dagonet nods, actually somewhat impressed by her creativity.

"Helps get to wounds, too," he smiles good-naturedly at her as he pulls out a bottle of cleaner from his saddlebag. She can't help but return the smile. "This will probably sting."

She shrugs and he starts cleaning the wound, glancing up at her occasionally to make sure he's not hurting her. Her face is calm, barely showing a sign of discomfort. Apparently, Tristan had taught her more than fighting.

As he cleans and bandages the wound, silence falls over them. It lasts until he finishes and returns his supplies to their proper places. As he straightens, he notices her eyes studying him.

His first thought is that she's staring at his rather ugly scars. Most women recoil at the sight of them. It stands to reason, with his luck, that even a warrior woman can't look past them.

"For a man of your build," she begins thoughtfully, "you have very gentle hands. You are a healer and have been trained as such, yes?"

The simple statement and question throws him off. Was that what she had been thinking?

"Yes," he answers finally, upon remembering that she asked him a question. "My grandfather. He was the village healer. He taught me what he knew of healing."

She nods her understanding as she looks over his work, nods once more, and fixes her sleeve.

What he does not tell her—what he has not told anyone—is _why_ his grandfather had taught him.

He had always had a large build, not quite like he does now, but he had always been taller and had more breadth to his shoulders than most his age. Due to this, he always seemed to injure other children by accident. After one incident, he had been particularly upset and had told his grandfather about how he thought he was particularly cursed.

He remembers how the elderly man had merely smiled gently, his eyes filled with knowledge.

'_Dagonet. You may think your height and build a curse now, but one day, it may very well help those you care about_.'

'_How, grandfather? All I do is hurt people. I don't do it on purpose. I just…_'

Again, he had smiled warmly at him.

'_Dagonet. Would you like for me to teach you what I know of healing?_'

'_Father says that you wouldn't teach him. Why would you teach me?_'

'_Because you, unlike your father, have a healer's heart. You care for all those around you, despite how they may treat you. Now, do you wish to learn from me?_'

He had stared at the man a moment, trying to find a motive, but he had still been young then, only ten summers old. Finding none behind the old man's offer, he had nodded and his grandfather had immediately begun to teach him.

Looking back now, he knows his grandfather had helped him greatly. The other children had not been nearly as upset with him for injuring them when he knew how to fix it. He had become quite popular among the other children because he knew how to fix their scraped knees and broken bones.

He misses the old man. His grandfather had died a year before the Romans had come to take him from his village. In a way, he is glad that he died before then. Had his grandfather still been alive, it would have been harder for him to leave.

Iseult watches the man's face. He seems as though he is far away, but when his eyes start to get misty looking, she turns away as if scanning the horizon, giving him his privacy.

Dagonet blinks quickly, forcing himself from his remembrances just as he catches movement at the stable door. He and Iseult both turn to see Tristan leading his horse out of the building and mounting, not even sparing either of them a glance.

Dagonet looks at Iseult out of the corner of his eye. He sees her slump ever so slightly and her face falls just a little before she catches herself and straightens, acting indifferent as she turns the other way.

Dag turns a heavy stare toward Tristan and shakes his head. He understands the scout isn't happy about her accompanying them, but he could at least not ignore her. She had, after all, traveled all the way from their homeland to see him. Judging by the time of her arrival, she had probably meant to either accompany him on his way back to Sarmatia or to travel and stay with him wherever he would go. Her plans had likely only changed upon hearing in the tavern last night of the final mission.

If he's being honest with himself, he has to admit it. He's not terribly comfortable with her accompanying them either, despite his previous good word on her behalf and his compliment about her competence against Tristan. Women do not belong in such dangerous settings.

Of course, he knows there are many Sarmatian tribes in which women are warriors in equal standing with the men. Even within his own village, there had been women who had hunted and fought alongside the men. In many tribes, it is even custom for the mother—upon the birth of a baby girl, while they are yet babies—to heat a bronze instrument constructed for the exact purpose of cauterizing the right breast, preventing its growth so that it would not later impair the child's archery skill.

Simply thinking about this, he winces. He cannot bear the thought of such an act. Even as a battle-scarred warrior, the thought turns his stomach. What a horrible thing to do to a child.

Of course, Iseult had obviously either not been meant to be a warrior or had not been in one of those tribes, for he had seen her in her tunic the night before as he took her to the tavern, and that custom had clearly not been performed.

He quickly busies himself with rechecking his supplies as a light blush starts to creep up his neck. Oh, how thankful he is that Bors is not yet out to give him a hard time. Despite the fact that Bors is not one of the brightest of the knights—that title would be split between Lancelot and Tristan—he always seems to know what others are thinking, especially Dagonet.

Another movement at the stable doors distracts him as the very man he had been thinking of rides up to him.

"Dag, you been keepin' the lady comp'ny?" he asks, winking at Dag before looking Iseult over skeptically. "So you're a warrior, huh?"

Dag and Bors both watch as she straightens.

"Yes," she responds shortly, knowing that he is being patronizing.

" 'ow many battles you been in?"

"No battles, just fights to protect my village."

"Ever killed a man? Had 'is blood covering you, staining yer clothes and skin—"

"Bors. Enough," Dag proclaims. He knows what Bors is trying to do, and he does not approve of scare tactics.

Iseult shakes her head, "It's fine, Dagonet. Bors is not bothering me. He is concerned that I'm not ready and will endanger you all. He has every right to ask me questions. I am the only unproven among you."

She then leans toward the two of them and focuses her gaze on Bors who fights back the sudden urge to flinch from the absolute coldness in her eyes.

"As I said before. I am no ignorant, nor innocent," she starts, lowering her voice. "Yes. I have stood in the midst of a fight and been covered in other's blood mingled with my own. I have seen the blank, staring eyes of those who fell by my blade. I have stood over them as they issue their final death rattle and depart from this world. I have watched as people from my village have fallen, and I unable to do anything. I have not fought battles on the scale that you and the others have, but I am no stranger to blood and death, I assure you."

Bors and Dagonet shift uncomfortably in their saddles, clearly having not expected such a dark answer, though, Dagonet would almost swear that he had seen the corner of Tristan's mouth upturn at seeing their discomfort. No doubt he had heard her answer to Bors and found some dark humor in their response to it.

Fortunately, Iseult straightens up, a tiny smirk visible on her tanned face as she once more scans the horizon.

Dag shoots an accusatory look at Bors who shrugs and mutters something to the affect of 'I can see the resemblance' while looking between Tristan and Iseult. The giant knight barely chokes back a chuckle as Tristan's gaze moves to Bors, who once more shifts nervously. Bors' horse, sensing its rider's nervousness, paws a hoof in the dirt. Seemingly satisfied by the reaction, Tristan turns his calm gaze back to the road ahead.

Not a moment later, all four already outside look to the stables as the remaining four riders emerge, followed by two others who are leading pack animals.

Arthur nods to them and kicks his horse into a gallop, everyone else following suite.

As they start forward towards the wall, Iseult a cold shiver runs down her spine.

Their mission has begun.


	7. Avenged

**Chapter Six: Avenged**

Rain, thunder, lightning, and now this. They're everywhere. Who? She hasn't the foggiest idea. Probably the Woads everyone had been talking about earlier. Does she know that for certain? No, because no one is talking now and no one has bothered to fill her in on the matter.

She casts a glance at Tristan, but he's scanning the trees and bush suspiciously. Obviously, she isn't the only one who feels their eyes.

Next, she turns to look beside her at Dag who gives her a smile that is probably meant to be reassuring but comes off as more forced than anything else. Clearly, he is uneasy as well.

Her horse is being skittish; that in and of itself is a sign that all is not right, nor is it well. Subconsciously, Iseult's hand drifts to the bow slung over her quiver that is attached to Mairete's saddle.

"Woads. They're tracking us," _his_ voice says only loudly enough for those in the immediate area around him to hear.

"Where?" asks Arthur, looking around the wood.

He drifts up to the front next to Arthur and looks around as he replies, "Everywhere."

Now everyone is looking around warily. Every twig that snaps is a Woad moving through the bush. Every leaf that falls from a tree has been detached as some Woad archer gets into position in one of the trees above them, pulling back the string on a bow, waiting for the right moment to drop one of them. At least, these are the imaginings of overly tense nerves.

Looking at Tristan once more, she can see that even he is uneasy. He knows, as she does and most likely as several others do, that if they are ambushed here in the woods, their chances of surviving are slim. The Woads are natives to this land. They know the land and trees and bushes and animals as no knight, bishop's aide, squire, Sarmatian woman, or Roman commander could ever hope to know them.

She places a calming hand on her horse's neck, trying to tell the creature that everything will be fine.

_No,_ the horse seems to say, shaking her head. _Danger_, her wide eyes warn.

Iseult leans forward to whisper comforting words in the mare's ears. The horse at last calms, if only a little, from her rider's reassurances.

She straightens up from whispering to her horse to see Dagonet give her an approving nod. She nods back and scans the area once more, perfectly timing it so that if Tristan isn't looking at a certain area, she is, and vice-versa.

Suddenly, a loud snapping noise fills the forest and arrows with barbed strings embed themselves in the ground and trees in front of the group, blocking their path.

"Yah!" she hears Bors yell as he spurs his horse to follow Arthur who has turned another way. She kicks her horse into a gallop to keep up with the others.

Even faster than before, more lines appear in front of them, and she watches from the back as Arthur stops his horse just in time.

"Get back!" she barely hears Lancelot shout.

Bors turns to look at them. "Get back!"

His yell is even louder than Lancelot's, yet just as those in the back—her, Tristan, and Dag—are trying to turn, more arrows with lines attached cut off their way.

Iseult starts as she sees one of the blue-painted archers aiming from a tree and she barely has enough time to shout, "Dag!"

It is enough time, though, and he ducks, narrowly avoiding an arrow to the head.

There is no time for any other words as they thunder after Galahad who has taken off in yet another direction.

They make a few sharp turns and, suddenly, a wooden fence carved into sharp points at the tips pops up, once more effectively cutting off their path.

'Corralling us,' she thinks even as she spots another danger.

"There!" she points at the archer up in a tree, warning the others.

A pain shooting up her left arm tells her an arrow has just grazed it; following it are two more arrows that almost hit Tristan and his horse. Thankfully, he leans back in the saddle, narrowly avoiding the arrow meant for him, and due to his action, his horse jerks back, the arrow harmlessly planting itself in the ground.

"This way!" she hears someone yell through the madness.

She turns only in enough time to see Arthur start down the only remaining path. One-handedly, she whips Mairete around, catching up with Tristan and Dag.

Over the thunder of the horses' hooves, above the sound of the adrenaline and blood pounding in her ears, she can hear them running after them. They are trying to cut off their escape. Box them in. Slaughter them.

Even as the Woads' battle cry rips through the thick, tense air, she knows that not even their horses will be able to outrun the noose tightening around all their necks.

Then they appear, leaping out in front of Arthur's horse, which rears to avoid their spears, that are poised and ready.

"Yaaah!" Bors yells once more. Making one more desperate attempt to escape, he turns his horse and takes off, everyone else following. Arthur, having been leading them earlier, is the furthest one back, and the Woads could practically jump on the horse with him if they were to try.

Unavoidably, she and all the others must once more stop in the face of barbed wire 'fences', the Woads on the other side, weapons ready.

Arthur draws his sword with a resounding '_shiiiiinng_', and he locks eyes with the leader of the Woad attack party. They seem to be having some sort of unspoken conversation even as the Woad pulls the string back on his bow.

A low, haunting sound echoes around the hills and all the Woads seem to look around, puzzled.

Taking advantage of this, Iseult scans quickly, counting as she grabs her bow, nocks an arrow, and pulls the string back, ignoring the throbbing pain from her protesting arm. If this is it, she will not just give up. She is a warrior and she will fight until her last, dying breath escapes her body.

Tristan glances over at her almost subconsciously as he pulls the string back and tries to dissuade any Woads from approaching.

He can see the determination on her face, the fire in her eyes as the strands of hair that have escaped her braid whip around her face. For a second, he forgets about the Woads and simply stares at her, maybe seeing for the first time that she is not the scared little girl he'd once had to defend from the other children of their tribe.

Arm bleeding, eyes flashing dangerously, weapon in hand and ready, daring the Woads to try to come closer, she looks like one of their Amazonian ancestors of legend; the proud warriors who had married into the Scythians, producing the Sarmatian race.

Focus. He must focus. He forces himself to look around and pivots his aim, stopping a group of Woads in their tracks.

Why don't they attack? Their war party could easily overwhelm them.

"What are you waiting for?" Gawain shouts up into the trees where the Woad archers are positioned.

The same chilling sound surrounds them once more and a shiver goes down Iseult's spine. The sound is ethereal.

Her eyes fall on the Woad party's leader whose arrow is still aimed at Arthur. He listens to the eerie sound and seems to understand its meaning. He appears to be warring with himself, but eventually, he lowers the bow and begins backing away, disappearing into the vegetation and mist.

For a moment, Iseult glances around warily. Will the Woads wait until they relax and then ambush them? Would they really just _leave_? Not _just_ leave, though. The Woads left while their war party had the advantage.

She eases her bowstring back to its rest position and flips the arrow into the hand holding the bow.

"Inish," Dag says from beside her to her right. His voice is harsh and rough as he looks up at the now empty trees. "Devil ghosts."

"Why would they not attack?" asks Galahad, voicing the thoughts of several.

Arthur replies grimly, "Merlin doesn't want us dead."

"Why else would they leave?" Tristan questions rhetorically. "They had us outnumbered and trapped. They could have easily picked us off."

"That's true," Gawain mutters, perhaps more to himself than anyone else.

"So Merlin doesn't want us dead," begins Lancelot, "Why?"

Bors looks around anxiously before he speaks.

"I don't know, but I'd rather not sit here talkin' about it long enough for 'im to change 'is mind."

Arthur merely nods and they follow the commander's lead as he starts down a path.

Not long into the ride, Dag's eyes scan over the group. Being the healer, he finds it to be his responsibility to spy injuries because none of the knights, or Arthur, will ever simply come forward about them.

After quickly looking at Jols and Horton, the bishop's aide who had accompanied them as a sign of the 'goodwill' of Rome, he takes a cursory glance over his brothers and Arthur. Feeling confident that none of them are injured, he sighs in relief. Before he can look away, though, one of them catches his eyes. Tristan. The scout holds his gaze a moment, just long enough to silently get his attention, before looking elsewhere and then back at him again.

Dag is puzzled until Tristan repeats the action. Catching on that Tristan is trying to draw his attention to something, he follows Tristan's line of sight and turns to his right, his gaze falling on Iseult. He looks back at Tristan questioningly and the scout makes a minute jerk of his head in her direction, clearly telling him to look at her again.

The knight does as he is asked and looks at Iseult once more.

'Of course!' he mentally berates himself.

Unused to her presence, he had completely forgotten to glance over at her to see if she had been injured. Immediately, he begins to look her over carefully for any sign of an injury. All he can see is her right side and she seems fine, but he knows that Tristan would not tell him to look at her for no reason.

He glances at her face and realizes that it is tightly drawn and her jaw is clenched. Suddenly, he understands.

Tristan had been trying to tell him that she is hurt.

He looks to his left and catches Tristan's eyes once more, discreetly raising his hands as if to ask 'where?' Tristan seems to understand the unspoken question because as he looks straight ahead, he casually lifts his right hand to rest on his left arm, glancing at Dagonet from the corner of his eye.

Dag nods once and Tristan begins scanning the forest around them.

Evidently, her left arm is hurt in some manner. Maybe all the commotion and sudden movement had reopened the wound obtained from her and Tristan's fight. That wound had been on her left arm, after all.

Dag leans forward in the saddle as if he is adjusting how he is sitting but glances at her as he does so. Even in the gathering darkness, he can just barely see an edge of crimson on her left sleeve before he leans back. No. The wound had not simply reopened. This is another one entirely.

He shakes his head. Of course she would be just as stubborn as the knights are about wounds. He should have expected no less considering who her teacher had been. Now, how to ask her about it without her getting her defenses up by her injury being brought to everyone's attention…

He quickly glimpses ahead and sees everyone else is either occupied by their own thoughts—meaning Arthur and Lancelot—or talking—Bors, Gawain, and Galahad—and, of course, looking around watchfully—Tristan and Horton, although the latter more out of paranoia than anything else. Thus, seeing all the others preoccupied, he reaches out and gently touches her right arm.

The muscles under his hand tense as she snaps her head around to look at him. Undoubtedly, he had startled her.

"Iseult," he says quietly, hand still on her arm.

She tries to make her face blank. "Yes, Dag?"

"Your left arm. What happened? It's not bad, is it?"

At first, she just blinks at him, as if surprised that he had noticed, but then she glances around, probably checking exactly what he had less than a few seconds ago. Once satisfied that no one is paying the least bit of attention, she returns her stare to Dagonet.

"An arrow grazed it," she responds only loudly enough for him to hear. "It's fine… Just a little sore."

"Is it still bleeding?"

He watches as she looks down at the wound in question and then back at him. She shakes her head. "No. It stopped."

"When we make camp tonight, let me examine it."

He leaves no room for argument, using the same tone he reserves for the most stubborn among the knights. She hesitates but nods once and then looks straight ahead.

Dag removes his hand from her arm and turns. He catches Tristan's gaze and nods, assuring him that he had taken care of the issue. The scout does not acknowledge him, and returns his eyes to the task of scanning the area for any other potential threats.

Once more, Dag shakes his head before looking up at the ever-darkening sky, a big, fat raindrop falling on his cheek… followed by several more.

'Wonderful…' he thinks just as the deluge begins.

O

A clap of thunder sounds, but it is quickly drowned out by a voice.

"Auugh!" the voice exclaims, catching most everyone's attention. "Oh, I can't wait to leave this island."

The man's long blond hair is plastered to his face and back, and his thin hood is doing nothing to keep the offending flood from soaking him through to the bone. His eyes wander around, looking at his brothers. Galahad is simply sitting beside him. Bors is drinking. Tristan is sharpening his sword. Lancelot seems to be deep in thought.

Movement catches his eyes as Dag sits down beside Bors, Iseult settling between Dagonet and the sword-sharpening scout. He almost shivers. Not many people would willingly sit down by Tristan while he is holding any kind of sharp object, let alone when he is in the process of making said object sharper.

Satisfied that he now knows what is going on around him, he continues.

"If it's not raining, it's snowing. If it's not snowing, it's foggy."

"And that's the summer!" smiles Lancelot.

Gawain merely rolls his eyes at the man.

"The rain is good," states Bors. "Washes all the blood away."

Gawain watches as Dag look at Bors from the corner of his eye.

"Doesn't help the smell."

A low chuckle emits from the burly man and Dag returns his attention to the small fire.

Gawain's gaze drifts to Iseult who Dag had just finished bandaging up before they had seated themselves down with the others. She, too, is staring into the fire, but her eyes occasionally dart up to look at Tristan who is all but ignoring her.

He truly cannot understand how the man can be so cold and indifferent to the woman who had apparently been a friend of his in the past. Even if he doesn't care about the past, is the man blind? His childhood friend has become a woman, not a bad-looking one either he cannot help but notice as he looks over her.

She is not the typical pretty for which most men look. She has a birthmark on the side of her face right at her jaw line, and she's obviously had a hard life. That is evidenced by her calloused hands and the few scars he had seen which hinted at several others that he couldn't.

Still, all that taken into account, she really is rather beautiful with her tanned skin, dark brown eyes, arched eyebrows, and angular cheekbones adorned by a warrior's tattoo on each side. Her's is a rough sort of pretty. One that is only brought further into focus by her wildly curling brown hair, which seems to reflect her untamed spirit.

Yes, Tristan must be blind.

And, of course, there is the _small _fact that she, a free Sarmatian, traveled all the way from their homeland to Briton just to see him.

Gawain cannot help but feel a twinge of jealousy. The bastard doesn't even realize how lucky he is, and if he does, he doesn't seem to care. How many of the others, he included, would give anything for the same to happen to them? Yet, here Tristan is ignoring her, too busy sharpening the blasted sword to so much as return her gaze.

"Hey, Bors," Lancelot starts, breaking Gawain from his thoughts, "do you intend to take Vanora and all your little bastards back home?"

"Oh. I'm trying to avoid that decision…by getting killed."

A chuckle escapes from Gawain's mouth, despite his current foul temper brought about by the rain. Bors and his humor.

Bors turns to look at the knight who is practically his brother. "Dagonet."

The knight looks at him, signaling that he has his full attention and so Bors continues.

"She wants to get married and give the children names."

"Women!" comes an exclamation from the outer of their circle and all eyes turn to the scout. "The children already have names, don't they?" he asks, sheathing his sword.

Dag raises his eyebrows and shakes his head at Tristan before turning back to Bors.

"Jes' Gilly. It was too much trouble so… We gave the rest of them numbers."

"That's interesting," says Lancelot, quirking an eyebrow. "And I thought you couldn't count."

Iseult watches as a rare, genuine smile spreads across Dag's face, accompanied by a deep chuckle.

Scars or no, smiling makes him look rather handsome, she has to admit. Even not smiling, he certainly does not look bad, but smiling… If he would smile more often, she's sure he would win over some woman. That woman, when he found her, would look past the scars and see the colossal knight for what he is, a gentle giant.

She has not known Dagonet for long, only two days now, but she can see already that he is a good man. Already, he has gained her trust with his compassionate concern for everyone's welfare, including her own. At this point, he's spoken with her more than Tristan has even looked at her.

She glances at the dark knight once more from the corner of her eye. He's looking around, probably trying to keep watch while everyone else talks. She sighs and returns her attention to the others just in time to hear what is, apparently, the last part of Bors' statement.

"… Now that I've got the chance, I… I don't want to leave my children."

Iseult watches as Dag looks at Bors knowingly.

"You'd miss them too much."

Bors has a distant expression on his face as he answers, "I'll take 'em wif me. I like the little bastards. They mean somefing to me."

The smiles that appears on Lancelot's face seems to make Bors realize how sentimental he's sounding and he tries to rationalize what he has said to make it sound more like the mighty warrior he is.

"Especially number three," he proclaims loudly. " 'e's a good fightah."

She smiles. No one could possibly miss the tone of his voice, that of a proud father boasting of his children to anyone who will listen.

"That's because he's mine," Lancelot retorts, grinning devilishly.

The dark-haired woman frowns and watches as Gawain almost chokes on the drink he'd been trying to swallow and as Galahad tries to smother his laughter by covering his mouth. She glances at Dagonet who is giving Lancelot a reproachful look, and she sees Bors' face fall into a scowl.

"I'm going for a piss," Bors states, standing and walking away from the group.

This proclamation only worsens Galahad's now not-so-hidden laughter and Gawain's efforts not to laugh.

Iseult, for her part, really doesn't see why Lancelot finds it necessary to say such things. Much like Dagonet, she scowls at the dark-haired man.

Lancelot, catching her look, raises an eyebrow at her.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of your gaze?" he asks her. She says nothing, but does not avert her eyes.

"I think you have angered her in some way, Lancelot," laughs Gawain. "I'll wager earning her ire is a foul way to die."

She barely restrains a smile at Gawain's words as she continues to stare at the man.

"Is there anything I can do to change your anger towards me, milady? I can be quite persuasive if given the opportunity," he says, one of his brightest and most charming smiles spread across his face, the same one that had probably charmed several women straight into his bed.

Iseult puts on her own smile, momentarily throwing off Lancelot. Then she stands and saunters over to him to the shock of the other knights, the two that she had been seated by in particular.

Iseult stops in front of him, raising an eyebrow, her smile still in place and unwavering as Lancelot gawks at her, obviously not having expected this response. She bends down, placing her hands on his shoulders and leans in as if to whisper something to him, but instead speaks loudly enough for everyone to hear.

"Lancelot, I highly doubt that _anything_ of yours would change my mind," she says, straightening up to the loud guffaws of Gawain and Galahad, as well as Bors who had returned just in time to catch the exchange. Even Dagonet is once more smiling and chuckling, thoroughly amused by the spectacle before him of Lancelot opening and closing his mouth, trying in vain to find a retort through his shock.

Iseult turns to face the others and addresses them. "Now if you all will excuse me. I intend to get what rest I can before morning."

That said she walks toward where she had set her saddle down earlier as her makeshift sleep area, only glancing back over her shoulder to see Lancelot return to his senses enough to scowl. She turns forward again, a smile on her face. Bors has been avenged.

Amidst the laughter, two dark eyes watch her walk away, the owner with the tiniest of smirks on his face.


	8. The Estate

**Chapter Seven: The Estate**

As the Roman's estate comes into view, silence falls over the group. Arthur sends Tristan scouting ahead to discover how close the enemy might be and to find whatever other information he deems necessary to assist them.

Iseult watches him ride away until she cannot see him anymore—he never does look back—and then she and Dag talk a little. Neither of them being very talkative people by nature, not much is said, but the silence is one with which they are both comfortable.

It is when the conversations of the other knights stop that she truly looks up for the first time in quite a bit of riding, worried that something might be wrong. Instead, she sees the estate.

As they ride closer, she can distinguish the shabby huts in front of the estate's secure walls. The closer they become, the more details she is able to discern about the little village, and what she discerns leaves her deeply frowning.

By the time they arrive at the gates, Iseult is thoroughly disgusted. The people dwelling outside the walls of the estate are thin and many of them look horribly under fed.

As Arthur announces who he is and orders the gates open, the people gather to stare at the group. One of them, an extremely malnourished woman, who is quite obviously pregnant, catches Iseult's gaze and tries to muster a welcoming smile. The warrior smiles back, but inside, she feels sick. Iseult glances at Dagonet who gives her a grim nod. He sees it, too.

"It is a wonder you have come. Good Jesus! Arthur and his knights," exclaims a rather plump man wearing a toga.

Iseult wonders why a man chooses to wear a glorified dress. In her village, not even many women had worn dresses, yet Rome seems to find some honor in the clothing.

She watches as the man tries to pet Galahad's horse and as the creature shies away from him. She and Dagonet exchange another look. Horses have an incredible sense of what kind of person someone is and they are not often wrong.

"You have fought the Woads. Vile creatures," the man continues as if nothing has happened and returns his attention to Arthur.

'Takes one to know one, I suppose,' Iseult thinks, glancing over the people gathered around them.

"Our orders are to evacuate you immediately," Arthur states stiffly, clearly not liking the Roman any more than Iseult or Dagonet.

Iseult observes the man as he looks around and then back to Arthur, a trace of disbelief on his face.

"But, that is impossible."

Arthur ignores him and seems to search with his eyes for something, maybe for someone.

"Which is Alecto?"

"I am Alecto," a tall boy of no more than six and ten or seven and ten summers calls from up on the wall.

As the boy disappears from view, the man becomes protective and borderline indignant.

"Alecto is my son," he says. "And everything we have is here in the land given to us by the Pope of Rome."

"Well, you're about to give it to the Saxons," she hears Lancelot patronizingly retort, and she sees Arthur give him a warning look before addressing the Roman once more.

"They are invading from the north."

The man seems surprised for but a moment before his face becomes impassive once more.

"Then… Rome will send an army!"

"They have. Us," replies Arthur. "We leave as soon as you're packed."

"I refuse to leave."

It is at this point that the boy, Alecto, walks out of the gates to stand slightly behind his father, his mother beside him. At the sight of the woman, Iseult almost sneers but stops herself.

The woman looks so subservient, as if her free will has been beaten from her. Her eyes, for the most part, remain on the ground, her head covered by a scarf of some kind. Her figure is slight and made slighter still by the way she folds in on herself.

'Is this what Rome does to its women?' Iseult ponders angrily as her hand subconsciously wanders to the scar on her forehead, covered by her hair. Just as quickly, she catches herself and returns her hand to the reigns of her horse.

"Go back to work!" the Roman pig yells and immediately Iseult's eyes move to those gathered around them. "All of you!"

The Roman soldiers take up their master's order and repeat them. When that does not entirely work, they begin shoving down people who do not comply quickly enough, one of them in particular catches both Iseult and Dagonet's attention. One of the guards shoves down the very same woman the two had observed earlier, the same one who had tried to smile welcomingly at them despite her condition.

Iseult would have dismounted immediately had not Dagonet—who had seen her quite near murderous expression—placed a restraining hand on her arm.

Upon her spinning to look at him, eyes wide and enraged, he shakes his head. This is not their fight.

Iseult holds his gaze defiantly a moment, and he's half-afraid she will jump down anyway, quite possibly dragging him with her. Instead, she turns a pained gaze to the woman whom she is helpless to assist.

The woman is still on the ground trying to stand, but no one helps her and there is no way that she can get up without help in her current condition.

Her tear-filled green eyes meet Iseult's dark brown ones and the warrior woman's heart almost breaks. The suffering in this woman's eyes is more than just physical pain; it is so much more. The young woman's eyes remind Iseult of when she had been observing Dagonet upon first meeting him. Just as his eyes had, her eyes hold so much pain, so much suffering.

The only two things that prevent her from dismounting right then and there are Dagonet's hand on her arm and the sudden movement of Arthur dismounting from his horse.

She tears her gaze from the woman to watch Arthur as he walks to the Roman. The man seems slightly nervous but attempts to stare Arthur down despite the fact that he has to look up at him to do so.

"If I fail to bring you and your son back, my men can never leave this island. So you're coming back with me if I have to tie you to my horse and drag you all the way back to Hadrian's Wall myself. My lord," Arthur tacks on mockingly. He then looks to the Roman woman. "Lady, my knights are hungry."

Iseult's already inflamed anger only further rises when the lady touches her husband's arm, silently asking for his _permission_.

"Go," the Roman says to his wife, waving her off as if she is a servant.

The diminutive woman scurries off quickly, leaving her husband to glare at Arthur until the Roman spins around on his heel and starts back inside the walls.

"Come," the man commands his son, grabbing the boy's arm to turn him back as well.

To Iseult's surprise and satisfaction, Alecto shrugs off his father's hand and stays where he stands, watching the knights. The man does not really seem to care, however, and continues on his way.

Iseult waits until the Roman is inside before she dismounts twisting her arm free of Dagonet's distracted grasp. As soon as her feet meet the ground, she walks toward the woman who is still on the ground, trying in vain to stand.

One of the Roman soldiers is yelling at the woman to get up but does not lift a finger to help her. When Iseult sees him raise his arm, she knows what is about to happen and sprints the rest of the way, barely catching the man's arm before he hits the terrified woman.

The man snaps his head around to look angrily at whoever stopped him. Though he is clearly startled to have a woman stare back at him, he continues to glare. Suddenly, Iseult cannot but remember a similar situation in which she had been the victim and Tristan had been her savior.

"Are you so weak that you must abuse her to show your power?" Iseult finds herself repeating his words from that day, but then decides upon adding a few of her own, "Perhaps you'd like to try the same with me," she suggests, her free hand hovering at her sole clearly visible knife.

The man's eyes narrow, but when she releases his arm, he only glares once more and storms away from her. Her wintry glare bores into his back for a second longer than is absolutely necessary to get her point across before turning her attention to the woman who is visibly shaking. Immediately, her eyes soften.

Now that she is closer to the woman, Iseult can see that she cannot be any older than twenty summers, possibly a summer or two younger. Her fiery red hair partially hides her green eyes, but what Iseult can see of them, reveals them to be leaking tears, leaving tracks of white on her dirt smeared face.

Slowly, Iseult kneels, trying her best not to spook the already frightened woman. She keeps her eyes on her, gauging her response to her actions. As Iseult puts one knee on the ground, supporting most of her weight, the woman meets her gaze warily but does not look away. Taking this as a good sign, Iseult settles on the ground in front of her.

For a moment, they stare at each other. Iseult, for her part, is uncertain as to what to say to her. She had not planned this far ahead. Had she planned to assist the woman? Yes. Had she planned what she would say to her? No, of course not.

"Th… Thank ye," the woman says finally, breaking the silence. Her voice, though strained and tired is strangely lilting and accented. It is obvious even to Iseult that the woman does not hail from Rome, most likely not even from Briton.

"It is nothing," Iseult smiles comfortingly, happy that at least something has been said. She wracks her brain for something more to say and finally stumbles across it. "The Romans believe that they may do whatever they like, and sometimes, they overstep their bounds. Are you hurt?"

The woman seems to hesitate before straightening her legs out in front of her and pulling the hem of her dress up to her knee, revealing a nasty gash on her lower leg.

"I scuffed it when I fell."

Iseult nods, struggling to keep her rage from her face at the sight of the wound.

"I have a friend who can look at that if you'll let him," Iseult suggests, jerking her head in Dag's direction. "He's a healer."

The woman appears apprehensive a moment but then nods and Iseult gives her, what she hopes, is a reassuring smile.

"My name is Iseult," she offers. "What is your name?"

The woman's eyes widen almost incredulously, as if amazed that anyone would care to know her name, and Iseult fights herself to keep her composure. There is no need to frighten the woman. It is not her fault after all. Bloody Romans.

"Flanna," she says at last.

"Well, Flanna, it is very nice to meet you."

" 'tis nice a'meetin you, too… Iseult," she replies, stumbling a little over the woman's strange name even as a small smile spreads across her face.

Iseult returns the smile and stands, holding her hands out to Flanna. The red-haired woman places her hands in Iseult's extended ones and allows her newfound friend to help her stand.

Once on her feet, she sways a little, her injured leg and precious burden both making her unsteady. Before her equilibrium can return, a loud shout startles her.

"Answer me!"

Iseult quickly reaches out to steady her, and then they both turn to see the origin and find that it is Arthur yelling at a tall, thin man.

Being further away than the rest of the group, they only hear the last part of the man's answer.

"You're from Rome. Is it true that Marius is a spokesman for God, and that it's a sin to defy him?"

Iseult glances at Flanna, her face quite nearly betraying her. The Roman pig had forced servitude upon the people by using their fear of their God. Even though she is not Christian, she doubts their God could possibly be so cruel.

She looks from Flanna to Arthur who is staring at an elderly man chained to a wooden construction clearly thrown together for the exact purpose it now serves. Arthur points Excalibur at the crowd of people.

"I tell you now," he begins, his voice steady, but it clearly holds barely restrained anger. The crowd, noticing it, move back slightly, in fear of the shining blade. "Marius is not of God. And all of you were free from your first breath!"

They all watch as Arthur turns to the man and raises his sword, the crowd gasping in fear. Iseult even hears Flanna's sudden intake of air.

"Don't worry," Iseult says to the woman beside her before Excalibur makes contact with the chains holding the man. The chains shatter and the man falls to the ground.

"Help this man," Arthur tells the crowd. When no one moves forward, he becomes angry. Why will no one come forward? This is their village elder who had gotten where he was mere second's ago while trying to help them. "Help him!"

Almost immediately, an elderly woman steps forward and begins assisting the man. Arthur's attention returns to the crowd once he sees that the man will be helped.

"Now hear me. A vast and terrible army is coming this way. They will show you no mercy, spare no one," he pauses, allowing this to sink in before continuing. "Those of you who are able should gather your things and begin to move south to Hadrian's Wall. Those unable, shall come with us."

That said, he turns to the tall man standing beside him and begins talking to him, but Iseult is unable to read what he says to him. Whatever had been said, the thin man immediately begins telling everyone what they may bring and what they may not bring, and the consequences of moving too slowly.

Iseult turns her attention to Flanna who is looking somewhat pale and her face is tightly drawn.

"Let's get you somewhere you can sit down so that my friend can examine your leg, alright?"

She nods but says nothing as Iseult leads her to a roughly hewn bench amidst the huts and supports her as she sits.

When Iseult sees the woman is settled, she returns to where her horse patiently stands. Absentmindedly, she runs a hand over her horse's nose as she looks to Dagonet.

"How is she?" he asks.

He senses her dangerous mood despite her calm. At his question, her eyes flash, revealing a mere hint of her anger.

"She is weak, under-fed, and many moons into her pregnancy. Of course, that is currently irrelevant. Her lower leg is gashed. Can you look at it?"

Dag nods and dismounts, lifting his medical bag from the saddle and slinging it over his arm as if it weighs nothing. Immediately, Iseult begins walking back to Flanna, only occasionally glancing over her shoulder to assure herself that the knight is still following behind her.

They see the bench where Flanna is still sitting, just as Iseult had left her. Upon seeing the two approach her, the woman's eyes widen. The man that Iseult walks with is enormous. He is easily head and shoulders above the tall warrior woman. For a moment, she cannot but shiver, seeing the scars that mar his face, but then she sees his eyes. His eyes are quiet. Quiet and, somehow, not quite as fierce looking as his scars.

Iseult sees the expression on Flanna's face when they come within view, and judging by the look in Dag's eyes, she knows that he saw it, too. He looks tired again and she hopes that Flanna will not scream or anything. Just as she thinks this, though, the woman's face relaxes and rearranges into a smile. Puzzled, Iseult raises an eyebrow.

The two reach her and Dag stands a little behind Iseult who kneels by the woman, looking her in the eyes.

"This is my friend, Dagonet. He is the healer I told you of and he wants to help you. Can you raise your skirt enough for him to see the gash?"

Flanna looks at the knight carefully before nodding and pulling her skirt up to her knee, revealing the wound. Iseult stands and watches as Flanna stares up somewhat warily at Dagonet. As if understanding that his height is quite intimidating to the small woman, he slowly kneels down, watching her reaction just as Iseult had earlier.

As soon as he situates himself on the ground, he begins carefully examining her leg. After a few moments, he looks up to the woman.

"I need to clean this or it may get infected," he says, pulling out a cloth and a bottle from his medical bag. He looks at Flanna until she nods, and then uncaps the bottle, pouring some of the liquid into the cloth and then recapping it. As he returns his attention to the woman, he hesitates once more. "This will sting. It will probably hurt like hell, but I promise you that me cleaning it is better than an infection."

Flanna sends a nervous glance to Iseult who is shifting from foot to foot and looking over toward the knights and Arthur, obviously wanting to do something useful somewhere, but not knowing what exactly said useful thing might be. She does, however, want to be anywhere but here having to watch Dag clean out the wound.

"Will you stay?"

The question immediately snaps Iseult's attention back to the woman. She looks so fragile and almost child-like with her pleading emerald eyes that, though Iseult falters a moment, she sits down and holds her hand out to Flanna. A look of gratefulness appears in Flanna's eyes as she takes Iseult's hand. She then turns to Dag and nods.

He returns the gesture and then begins cleaning the wound as gently as possible. Even still, Flanna is barely fighting down the scream that is trying to escape, and her grip on Iseult's hand tightens.

Iseult, on the other hand, is actually wondering how on earth someone so tiny may quite possibly have broken her hand. Who would have guessed the delicate-looking woman could have such a strong grip?

She looks elsewhere, trying to distract herself, but to no avail. A small whimper from beside her draws her focus back to Flanna. Not knowing how to help the woman, she exchanges a look with Dag that only someone who is faced with a situation in which they are unfamiliar with can give. The knight seems to understand and glances to Flanna.

"What is your name?" he asks, before looking back to the gash.

"Flanna," she answers, this time appearing not quite as surprised to be asked for her name.

"As Iseult told you, my name is Dagonet."

"You're one of the Sarmatian knights?" she questions as she bites back another scream when the cloth goes over a particularly bad spot on her leg.

"Yes. I am."

"And you've come to rescue us from the Saxon?"

Dag pauses a moment and says nothing before glancing up at her.

"Originally, no. That wasn't what our mission was, but Arthur has said that we will."

He returns to cleaning as Flanna looks around to see the other knights who are more or less stomping around like angry children.

"They are not happy about it," she states in a very matter-of-fact tone before looking at Iseult and then back at the knight tending to her wound. "And you? What do you think?"

Again, he hesitates then continues cleaning, eyes on the wound.

"I think that Arthur is right. None of you will survive if you stay here."

"And yet some of them seem not to care."

Iseult raises an eyebrow at Flanna's boldness even as the woman shrinks a little when Dag looks up at her with his tired eyes.

"It is not that they do not care. They simply know that this will put many at risk. Travelling with so many people will slow us down and it will be difficult to complete our mission."

Obviously, Flanna had not been expecting such a polite answer but still she feels as if she has been scolded. Why had she said that to the quiet knight? There had been no reason for it. Why, if she had said that to Marius… She shivers involuntarily and takes in a shaky breath at the thought. The action catches Dag's attention and he glances up at her briefly.

"Sorry," he says, thinking that he had somehow hurt her.

Flanna merely nods, though, not entirely sure why he has apologized. She should be the one apologizing yet she refrains.

Dag finishes cleaning and begins bandaging the wound in silence, no one seeming eager to talk after how the last conversation had ended. As soon as he begins wrapping the gash, Flanna releases Iseult's hand, not missing the tension that leaves her face as she does. Clearly, she had kept a firmer grip than she had thought.

When Dag finishes bandaging, he puts away his supplies and stands, looking to Flanna seriously.

"You'll need to gather your things now. Is there someone Iseult or I can find for you to get what you need?"

At his question, the woman's face falls and her shoulders slump a little.

"No. No. There is no one for ye t' find," she replies sadly. "My husband… He died."

Not expecting the woman to elaborate, Iseult nods.

"Then I will help you," she volunteers.

Flanna seems uncertain at her words, even a little surprised. "You will? But is there nothin' that ye must do?"

Iseult shakes her head, the strands that had escaped her braid once more falling into her face. Pushing them behind her ear, she answers, "There is nothing that requires my attention at the moment."

"If ye're sure…"

"I am. Now let us hurry. There is not much time."

O

Iseult and Flanna leave Dagonet to work on whatever he must do in preparation of the return journey to the wall. Flanna leads the way with Iseult trailing only slightly behind.

They arrive at a hut even smaller and in need of more repair than several of the others surrounding it.

Iseult frowns at the state of disrepair. Is this in what Flanna had been forced to live? Then again, she probably hasn't had anyone to help her with the maintenance of the abode since her husband had died. After all, no one within the small village seems as if they will willingly assist each other, no matter the circumstances, unless Arthur arrives slinging around Excalibur.

When they reach the door of the home, Flanna opens it and walks in, beckoning Iseult to follow her before disappearing inside the hut.

The tall woman looks doubtfully at the size of the hut and the height of the door. Good thing Dagonet hadn't come to help. A half-amused snort escapes her at the thought of the enormous knight trying to maneuver the door. A sigh quickly follows her snort, but without a word or complaint, she hunches down slightly and steps into the home. It is somewhat warily that she straightens until she determines that the ceiling is indeed tall enough for her full height.

Once well inside and straightened out, she allows her eyes a brief moment to adjust to the change of lighting before looking around and taking in her surroundings.

The one-room hut is sparsely furnished in the truest sense. The only furniture in the place is a shabbily built bed, a wooden stool, and a small but sturdy wooden chest shoved against the wall.

Between the furniture, herself, and Flanna, Iseult cannot but feel crowded. The hut really is quite small; almost unbearably so, and she can almost feel the walls closing in on her. She has to call upon every bit of her warrior's pride to keep from stepping back outside.

She tries to force her mind anywhere else to keep it occupied on anything except the tightening in her throat and the walls of the room, and looks at Flanna. The woman has knelt down on the floor in front of the wooden chest. When Iseult realizes her intentions, she rushes over and places a hand on the young woman's arm.

Flanna looks at her questioningly, but rather than saying anything, Iseult simply moves Flanna's hands from the chest and shakes her head. The woman sighs but stands and walks to sit on the bed.

Iseult kneels down and situates her hold on the chest before carefully lifting it and then turns to look at Flanna expectantly, awaiting instructions.

Realizing for what Iseult must be waiting, she scoots over closer to the head of the crudely constructed bed.

"Just set it down here, if ye please."

Iseult simply nods and places the small chest on the bed, beside Flanna. Having done so, she steps back, once more close to the door and fighting her urge to step outside even as the tiny woman's hands gently caress the wooden chest, a small smile on her face. Iseult watches curiously as Flanna opens the box almost reverently, revealing within several small items.

The first object, the one that stands out, is a metal ring, which Flanna picks up and lovingly runs her fingers over.

Without looking at Iseult, Flanna speaks.

"My husband and I were not always… We have not always been… We used t' live in a village in the land of Eire. t'was always so beautiful there. The hills were so green and they seemed t' go on forever. Our village was surrounded by the beautiful hills and forests that it was rumored the little people and the fae danced in. At night, if ye listened closely, ye could almost hear their songs as they danced aroun' the mushroom rings."

"It sounds beautiful," Iseult says, not coming across anything else to say about the enchanting image Flanna's lyrical voice and description had evoked.

"t'was," she smiles. "But one day, people came t' our village and burned it t' the ground. So many died that day. Young children, women, elderly. It didn't seem t' matter t' them. They called us pagans, but our village was not pagan at'all. We were, all of us, Christian. The few survivors told them as much, but they did not listen.

"They chained us together and brought us here t' serve Marius. This ring… This ring belonged t' me ma. She died a month inta bein' here. She survived the burnin' of our village, but me da didn't, and that was what killed 'er. They loved each other so much. She just couldn't live without him. With her last breath, she told me not t' cry for her because she would go t' meet him, and she handed me her ring, her wedding ring, and then she just…" Here the woman pauses and breathes in shakily before she conintues. "Aidan… My husband…. He said that we should hide th' ring or Marius would have it. He crafted this box t' hold what few possessions we had… We called it our treasure chest," she smiles again even as a distant laugh escapes her. "He said that one day, we would leave this place and then I would wear the ring without fear of losing it t' filthy masters…"

At this her smile disappears and her face becomes pained.

"He was wrong, though. 'We' won't be leaving," she says, as she pulls another object from the chest, another metal ring, this one much larger and much more plain than the intricate designs that adorn the first ring.

"This is all I have left of him. This ring. His wedding ring. Sometimes… Sometimes I wish I had died with him," she chokes out, beginning to cry hard enough that her small frame violently shakes.

'_Please tell me there is some way… For if there is not, I will straightway depart from this miserable existence_.'

Iseult shakes her head. More non-existent memories. From where do they come? Why do they plague her?

She pushes these thoughts from her mind and returns her gaze to Flanna who is still sitting on the bed crying. Her shoulders are slumped helplessly and her head is bowed, sobs still racking her frail body.

Honestly, her heart breaks for the woman. She cannot even imagine what it would be like to lose someone so dear to her. Yet, even as she thinks that, she knows it to be a lie.

She may be unable to truthfully _know_ how it feels, but she has imagined. Almost every night, every day, every waking moment in her homeland, she had imagined it, dreamt it, lived with the fear of it. The fear that one day…

Instead of finishing the dark thought, she walks the two steps it takes for her to reach the bed from her position at the door and sits beside the crying woman. Without a word, for there are none to be said, she puts one arm around her shoulders and gently pulls her into a hug. The heartbroken woman continues to cry, and the hand not holding the two rings tightly grips Iseult's shirt.

Almost involuntarily, Iseult raises one hand and begins to stroke Flanna's bright red hair in the same manner she faintly remembers her own mother doing to comfort her when the other children had hurt her or called her names.

For a long time, they simply sit like this, Flanna crying into Iseult's shoulder and Iseult trying to find some words to help her new friend. Iseult, in her one and thirty years, has not known nearly so much pain as the young woman crying into her shirt knows even at her young age of, at the most, twenty summers. She should not know this kind of pain.

Bloody, bloody Romans. They ruin everything and everyone in the pursuit of their conquest over the free world. Why can they not just be happy with what they have and leave everyone else alone?

"Flanna… I cannot know what it is like for you, but—while I did not know your husband—I do know this: he would want you to live and to be happy. I'm sure he would hate to see you crying so, and I'm certain he would be overjoyed that you will do as you two could before only dream. So you must smile because you are realizing his dream."

The effect of Iseult's words is not immediate, but slowly, Flanna stops shaking as badly and her breathing begins to even. Finally, she stops crying all together and after another few sniffles, she pulls away, and Iseult's arms return to her sides.

A forced laugh escapes Flanna's lips as she wipes her face with her sleeve and rubs her eyes.

"Look at me, a cryin' like a newborn babe on the day that I finally get t' leave this accursed place. What's wrong with me?" she exclaims, looking up to Iseult. "I'm sorry," she apologizes, shifting her gaze to the floor. "I'm sorry you had t' see that."

"No need to be sorry, and, Flanna," Iseult begins, pausing until the woman looks up at her with puffy red eyes. "That ring isn't all that you have left of your husband."

Flanna seems to look at her curiously a moment and so Iseult slowly moves her hand and gently places it on the side of the other woman's rounded belly, then pulls it back again.

At this, Flanna looks down, as if just thinking of this and places her own hand on her belly, a warm smile spreading over her face.

"You're right, Iseult. It isn't."

Iseult gives her a closed-mouth smile and stands.

"Now, let's get your things packed so that you and your child can leave this place today."

Flanna looks up at her, a slight glimmer of hope in her eyes, and nods.


	9. Extreme Prejudice

**Chapter Eight: Extreme Prejudice**

"Iseult…Are you sure about this?" asks Gawain as they stand back, watching Dagonet lift Flanna up onto Iseult's horse.

Iseult adjusts the bow now slung over her shoulder and nods.

"I am much more able-bodied than she and there is not enough room left in the wagons. I can walk if necessary."

The golden-haired knight wants to point out to her that she still seems very thin from her journey and might not be in the best physical condition for such a strenuous activity, but he knows mentioning this would only serve to raise her defenses. She would take it as him thinking her to be weak and she might decide to walk the entire way back to the wall. No. He must be clever in his wording.

"Why not ask for a ride from someone? Perhaps Dagonet? Or Tristan even?"

At his name, she seems to stiffen and Gawain instantly regrets having so carelessly thrown the scout's name into the conversation. Had the man even said a word to the woman since their match at the wall?

Her eyes darken as she replies with a forced calm.

"I doubt that would go well for either party involved."

"You never know. Maybe he will talk to you if the rest of us are not around," he suggests, only partially optimistic.

"Maybe…"

"Well, you can at least ask when he returns."

She remains silent but he can see that she is considering it.

"It is… not impossible."

Movement from behind Iseult catches the knight's attention, and he watches a moment before returning his gaze to her.

"I would decide quickly. He has returned."

Iseult turns and watches as Tristan rides toward Arthur. Even from here, she can see that he is hunched over slightly. She cannot but wonder at the cause of the rather uncharacteristic posture. Had he run into trouble? Is he hurt?

Gawain climbs onto his horse and then looks to Iseult who has a worried frown on her face. He follows her line of sight and notices what she had and wonders much the same. Surely the ever-watchful scout is not hurt. There must be another reason for his slouch.

Tristan must be tired is all… Right?' Gawain thinks even as the doubt slowly seeps into his mind.

He looks to Iseult. The woman is still watching the scout with her brown eyes, probably trying to will herself into being able to hear the conversation he is now having with Arthur.

"Iseult," he calls, getting her attention and holding his hand out to her. "Come. I'll get you over there."

She nods and grabs his hand, allowing him to help her onto the horse. Once she is situated, Gawain looks to Dagonet.

"Dag," he barks and the knight turns to look at him, "Tristan has returned."

Dagonet follows Gawain's gaze toward the estate and sees Tristan speaking with Arthur. The knight quickly calls upon one of the villagers to come over and take Mairete's reins. With a nod to Flanna, he walks to his own horse and mounts, nodding to Gawain. Almost instantaneously, they both urge their horses forward, sending them into a canter toward the walls of the estate.

By the time they get there and stop their horses, Tristan and Arthur have finished talking and the tattoo of not distant enough Saxon drums echoes loudly across the hills and landscape. All the knights, Arthur, Iseult, and those of the estate stop what they are doing and listen to the strange sound, the sound of Death's footsteps a few of those listening cannot avoid thinking.

"Come on. Get back to work!" demands a voice that breaks the eerie trance. Arthur, the knights, and Iseult all turn to see a guard yelling at two monks walling up the door of a small stone building.

"Back to work," repeats the other guard.

Arthur stares at the monks as they continue to wall up the door and his eyebrows furrow. He draws Excalibur and dismounts. As he walks toward the two monks and the two Romans, Tristan follows him on his horse, offering a silent challenge to any who might try to harm his commander.

Arthur raises Excalibur, pointing at one of the guards with the dangerously gleaming sword.

"Move," he says, continuing to advance.

The guards grip their swords tighter and look around almost nervously but do not budge.

"Move," Arthur repeats, slightly more forcefully than the last.

Bors rides forwards and gets closer, weapon drawn. His presence, to be certain, is an imposing one for the guards. They glance nervously at him until the bigger threat reminds them of its existence.

"Move!" commands Arthur, the sword becoming a little too close for comfort in the guard's opinion as he moves.

As Lancelot nudges his horse forward, it practically head butts the guard closest to it who barely dodges in time.

Seeing that they had done as he had asked, he points with his sword at the door that is almost completely walled up.

"What is this?" he demands.

"You cannot go in there," one of the monks declares. "No one goes in there. This place is forbidden."

The flat of Excalibur pushing against the man's shoulder is enough to convince him and his monk friend to move as Arthur bids them and they soon find themselves standing by an unhappy Gawain, Iseult behind him.

Iseult dismounts, shoving roughly past the monks even as she draws one of her knives. She holds it in her left hand, ready in case of a fight, though, she doubts that anyone here will challenge the knights or their commander.

"What are you doing?" exclaims an outraged voice that Iseult has already branded in her mind as the Roman pig, Marius. "Stop this!"

She turns, more than happy to stop him herself, but Bors rounds his horse to block the man's way, halting him in his tracks.

When Iseult turns back to Arthur, he is running a hand over the wall.

"Arthur, we have no time," warns Lancelot.

The Roman commander seems to not hear his friends as he continues his examination of the wall.

"Do you not hear the drums?"

At Galahad's question, Arthur turns to face those gathered around him and jerks his head toward the door.

"Dagonet."

The giant knight understands and dismounts, pulling his battle-axe from its holster on his saddle. Stepping up to the door, he gets into his stance, situates his hands on the axe and swings, releasing a yell as he does.

A few of the rocks fall from the top, and Dagonet resumes his stance and swings again, this time his full weight behind the motion as he issues another cry. Even more rocks fall to the man's sheer force. Everyone watches the wall fall, entranced by the almost unnatural power in the man's arms.

Finally, when the wall of rocks has been defeated—felled by his strength and his battle-axe— he shifts the axe, holding it effortlessly in one hand as he kicks the door once, testing to see if it is locked. Finding that it is, he looks to Arthur for instruction. The commander in turn looks to the Roman guards.

"Key."

"It is locked…" the man begins, looking around uneasily, "from the inside…"

Arthur returns his gaze to Dagonet and nods. The knight leans against the door frame and hunches slightly, his left leg behind him, his right leg bent; his whole frame is positioned to allow a great deal of power to be channeled through his body and to the door.

In preparation, his body tenses and then he kicks out, a loud thud resounding. The door shakes but does not give and so he leans back even further. Once more, his body tenses and this time, he kicks out with even more force.

A thunderous crack precedes the door swinging open and the dark look on Dagonet's face worries those standing around him.

He moves back to stand behind Arthur who has picked up a torch as Lancelot draws one of his swords and dismounts.

Iseult walks to stand beside Dagonet. The knight glances at her briefly and the look on his face does not escape her. His look is dark, but what could trouble him so?

When Arthur steps through the door, the torchlight illuminating the inside quickly answers this question for her.

Chains, shackles, and sharp implements hang from the ceiling, the dark and rust-stained metal gleaming in the light of the torch.

Lancelot and Dagonet step in behind Arthur, but Iseult does not follow. Instead, she watches as Gawain looks at the two monks standing in front of him.

"You, you… Go."

The monks look anxious and do not budge so the rather bulky knight grabs one by the collar and pushes them both toward the entrance.

"Move!" he barks, pushing them through the door.

Iseult casts one look at Tristan who has ridden closer to them and pulled his sword, once more daring anyone to step forward and meet Death. Seeing that, once again, he will neither look at her nor acknowledge her presence, she steps into the darkness, quickly aligning herself beside Dagonet.

The knight glances down at her, and he notices the slight tightening of her jaw and the way her eyes seem to dart around the dark tunnel just as warily as she had in the forest after the Woad attack. What could possibly upset her so much?

He casually allows his hand to bump hers in an effort to get her to look at him and she does.

For the first time, he sees something in her eyes that is very close to fear before her defenses are again in place.

"Sorry," he whispers, trying to continue the ruse that he had accidentally hit her hand.

She nods and then averts her eyes elsewhere, anywhere else, to keep from having to hold the knight's gaze.

Dagonet sees more than the other knights, understands more. If anyone would be able to figure out her weakness, he would. Well, he or Tristan. Of course, the way the scout had ignored her since she had proven that she could accompany them, he probably would not be an issue.

Yet, in fact, it is the scout's fault that she is what she is now. It is his fault that she had become so accustom to open spaces, freedom.

He had taught her about nature and how to survive in it. He had always seemed to prefer the wide open to the closed huts. How many nights did they sleep outside under the stars, sitting in their tree? She, leaned up against him and he with his arm around her, keeping her warm despite the cold, bitter wind. How she treasures those moments in their tree, far from the accusing eyes of the villagers who thought her some sort of demon.

After he had been taken by Rome, she had spent as much time as possible outside, enjoying freedom for the both of them. The wide open reminds her of that freedom. Freedom and good memories and, in essence, the times she had spent with Tristan. Strangely enough, continuing the habit of being outside and falling asleep in their tree had almost made her feel as if he were closer somehow, as if he were not in a completely different land far, far away.

Even though he is now only outside, being in the rather closed space of dark and forbidding room makes her feel as if he is miles away. At this thought, she cannot restrain the shiver that runs down her spine and she tries to think of anything else, unwittinngly taking a step closer to Dagonet in the process.

'What is wrong with her?' he wonders, continuing to stare at her a moment longer before turning his attention to the stairs he must descend.

Halfway down, a low sound can be heard by all. The closer the group draws to the foot of the stairs, the louder and more distinct the noise becomes until it is recognizable as a man's voice, chanting.

"Exaudi orationem meam. Exaudi orationem meam."

They reach the bottom of the steps and the room opens into an open space. For a moment, Dagonet can see Iseult relax, but then her eyes widen and he hears her sharp intake of air.

"In nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis et in virtute Spiritus Sancti."

Even before he entirely steps down into the room, his chest tightens. At the entrance of the stairs is a single dead corpse, strung up with chains. As he looks around the room, several more corpses line the sidewalls.

Chains hold the thin and rotting corpses to the wall, watching with sightless eyes those who enter their tomb. There is one prominent feel to it all:

Death.

Death is in the air. Death is hanging over them. Death is gripping their souls, trying to drag the new arrivals into the same oblivion that the former occupants had been forced.

The massive knight stares at the room, disgust and shock evident on his face. Simply to get his eyes off the grisly scene, he looks to Iseult.

Her face is pale and drawn, her eyes wide. The lighting of the torch makes her appear even thinner than she is and she appears as though she is not far from the fate that these people had met. This thought disturbs the kind-hearted knight enough that he reaches out and places his hand on her upper back, just between her shoulder blades.

She jumps as if she expects to turn and see Death itself standing behind her waiting to lay claim to her and she almost flinches away. Upon realizing it is Dagonet—not Death—that has placed his hand upon her, she glances up at him gratefully and takes a small step closer to him. It dawns on him that she, too, must feel how near is Death.

He glances around the dark chamber, keeping his hand on her back to reassure the both of them that at least one other person in the horrid room is alive.

"Gawain," Lancelot says quietly, breaking the silence. He motions for Gawain to pass him the torch and the knight quickly does so.

Finally being allowed a full view, the golden-haired knight disgustedly looks around the room.

Arthur begins walking forward toward another room, and Dagonet follows, moving his hand to Iseult's shoulder and leading her forward while she stares in shock at the ghastly sight.

In all honesty, he can neither blame her nor can he attribute this to her being a woman. No. Even he, a seasoned and scarred Sarmatian knight, has to swallow back the sickening feeling in his stomach.

As they approach the inner room, a skeletal-looking man in a habit steps out and scornfully looks at the group.

"Who are these defilers of the Lord's temple?" he says, his voice bringing a cold chill to the air.

"Move," Lancelot orders, shoving the monk out of the way and entering the room, Arthur following behind him. The curly-haired knight's eyes disgustedly pan the room, finding what is in this room even more horrible than the last.

As Arthur crouches next to the wall, Dagonet watches but cannot see at what his commander looks. He does, however, see Lancelot spin around to glare daggers at the man.

"The work of your God. Is this how he answers your prayers?" he spits.

Dagonet removes his hand from Iseult's shoulder, not wanting to bring her into the room if she does not wish to enter, as he releases her shoulder and steps into the room, panic seizes her and she quickly follows, her hand gripping the back of his sleeve.

The smell and sights that assault her leave her head spinning. She wants so much to run back outside, despite her effort to keep up her façade, but her own terror holds her there. Her own terror keeps her unable to do anything but stare.

Being a warrior, she by no means has a weak stomach. She has seen and done many things, many horrible things without so much as batting an eyelash. Yet, she has never seen, nor imagined in her darkest nightmares, such sick images as what lay in front of her eyes at this very moment.

What were once people—men, women, children, elderly—are now rotting corpses so disgusting that she can feel a bitter taste rising up in her throat and she has to swallow it back and close her eyes to keep from emptying the contents of her stomach. She leans into Dag's arm, breathing in the scent of his clothes rather than the wretched smell that fills the air.

The knight glances down at her. She looks so fragile and pale, a high contrast to the borderline indifference and defiance to which he had grown accustom. He places one hand on her much smaller one, trying his best to soothe her.

"See if there's any still alive," Arthur commands.

Immediately, Dagonet pats her hand and she begrudgingly releases her grip on his sleeve, stepping back as she does. She keeps her eyes closed, and in doing so, misses the subtle look that Dag sends to Gawain who steps forward, taking Dagonet's place and putting an arm around her shoulders.

Iseult jumps, her eyes snapping open and she only relaxes upon discovering that it is merely Gawain. For some reason, she is not quite as comfortable with the lion-like knight as she is with his gigantic brother, but she is still not uncomfortable and leans back slightly but this time does not shut her eyes.

Instead, she watches as Dagonet lifts one of the heavy grates that leads down and as he almost gags at the sight and the smell. He steps back quickly and covers his mouth, looking away.

Lancelot, in the meantime, hacks one of the chains for the cages low down on the walls and moves the grate in front of the opening.

"How dare you set foot in this holy place!" one of the monks says, trying to force Lancelot up, but the knight has different plans and runs the disturbed monk through with _extreme_ prejudice.

As he withdraws his sword and the man crumples to the ground, one of the other monks points to the lifeless form.

"There was a man of God."

"Not my God!" Lancelot exclaims angrily even as Iseult watches Dag lift another grate.

"This one's dead," Dagonet states.

"By this smell, they are all dead," Gawain's voice comes from beside her. He moves his arm from around her and steps forward, but spins around on the monks. "And you. You even move, you join them."

He then continues forward, as Arthur looks into yet another cage. Just then, Dagonet swings open another grate and looks in.

"Arthur!" Dag exclaims, an almost happy tone to his voice.

Everyone turns to look at him and he quickly reaches down into the small pit and lifts out a sickeningly thin and bruised boy with curly brown hair.

As he sits him down on the stone, the boy looks at him, frightened, and Dagonet bends down slightly, pointing at the child as he does so.

"You must not fear me."

The boy seems to focus on him for a moment, but then looks away. Iseult starts to step forward to help Dag, but he holds a hand up.

"Iseult, stay over there," he instructs her, thinking about the fact that she is in no condition to see the rather grotesque sights within the other pits he has already checked. Upon him gesturing to the other pits, she realizes why he has told her to stay where she is and does so without complaint.

Gawain hunches over with the torch and looks inside yet another cage and finds nothing but dead bodies.

Not a moment later, though, Arthur bends over, examining one of the other cages when he comes face to face with a frightened pair of eyes. Seeing Arthur's reaction, Lancelot, too, crouches down. Arthur passes him the torch he had been holding and then stands. He goes into a stance and then brings the full weight of Excalibur down upon the chain that holds the grate which had trapped the woman within the confines of the cage.

Dagonet turns around to look at Iseult and when she meets his eyes, he speaks.

"Iseult, go outside quickly and tell them to ready water. We will be out shortly."

She nods and without a word, hurries from the room, and towards the stairs. She ascends them two at a time, making herself ignore the feeling of the walls closing in on her. Instead, she forces herself to focus on the task Dagonet had given her. Right now, what is important is getting water for those two people down there: the girl and the young boy.

A few more steps and suddenly she is outside, breathing in the cool, fresh air.


	10. Heroes

**Chapter Nine: Heroes**

Upon seeing her face in the darkened doorway, he immediately notices how pale she appears. He watches her as she steps out from the building, trips, and falls, barely throwing her hands out in front of her in time to prevent her face from making contact with the ground.

His first reaction is one that slightly surprises him, one that had been long dormant since he had left Sarmatia.

Tristan had almost sheathed his sword, dismounted, and rushed to help her up, just as he had so many times when they were younger. She had been forever falling or tripping, and he would always stop what he was doing to make sure that she was okay.

Amazingly, as strong as his first reaction is, he subdues it and remains impassive except for the slight hint of something in his eyes saying otherwise. He knows very well that were he to sheath his sword and dismount, the Romans standing around might become bold and try something. The safety or her, his brothers, and Arthur depend upon him remaining calm and imposing. That is his job.

On the other hand, he has no problem when Galahad carries through with the reaction that he had suppressed. With he and Bors still mounted, it is not as if Galahad dismounting takes away from the threat to the Romans. The pup could not look intimidating if he tried, after all. So with him and Bors still a threat, the Romans will try nothing against anyone.

Galahad kneels beside the woman and asks quietly, "Are you alright?"

She looks up at him wearily, her eyes still haunted, and the young knight has to fight the urge to ask her what she had seen that could possibly shake her so.

"I am fine. I tripped is all," she breathes getting herself in a sitting position. "What is important is that Dagonet said to get water."

"Water?" the knight asks, his eyebrows furrowing in puzzlement.

Iseult nods tiredly.

"Yes, water. There are two people, a young boy and a girl who looks to be barely over twenty summers. They were down there in that… that dungeon."

At her statement, his eyes widen in shock and disbelief. He quickly rises to his feet and turns around to where Jols and Horton stand.

"Jols, get two water skins, quickly!"

Not knowing the situation but hearing the urgency in Galahad's voice, Jols nods. Without question, he runs to the supply horses, dragging Horton along behind him.

Seeing that Dagonet's orders are being carried out, Galahad turns back to Iseult whose face has regained some color

As she stands, she notices Galahad's concerned countenance and nods to assure him that she is fine. He seems to relax a little and slowly returns to his horse.

Iseult looks up just in time to catch Tristan's gaze and, for a moment, she is almost convinced that they two are the only people existing in this place. The images of the underground torture room temporarily leave her and she simply stares at him.

His face is as unreadable now as it has been since she joined them but his eyes betray him. She almost instantly recognizes the expression in them. So many times she had seen that same look in his eyes when they were younger, and now, he has finally revealed it to her once again. Concern. He is concerned for her.

Straightening, she nods to him almost imperceptibly and he returns the gesture before looking elsewhere.

Despite the dark circumstances, she almost smiles. True, he had not spoken to her, but he had—intentionally or no—proven that he is not completely cold toward her. On some level, he still feels concerned about her well-being. She counts this as progress.

Hearing the sound of footsteps, she moves from being in front of the door and stands to the side, waiting.

Not long after she moves, Lancelot, carrying Excalibur, steps out of the stone building and throws down into the snow the torch he had been holding. It takes no one outside any great amount of time to see how disgusted he is at this moment, and, once more, Galahad must stop himself from asking.

Even if he had been unable to keep from asking the question, his answer would have cut him off quickly for almost as soon as Lancelot steps aside, Arthur emerges from the gloom and in his arms is a pale young woman with dark hair. Following Arthur is Dagonet, carrying the too thin young boy cradled in his arms, his axe held in front of him with both hands, using it as a support.

As soon as Dagonet sets the boy down, he kneels beside him, and Iseult quickly walks over to them, her eyes unable to move from the boy.

He can be no older than nine or ten, at most, eleven summers. A boy his age should be hearty and running around playing and adventuring, not so thin that his skin is pulled taut over his bones.

She only tears her stare from the boy as she catches movement at the door. Turning, she sees Gawain shove the two monks outside. She cannot refrain from noticing that the two men look even crazier outside than they had in the dungeon. At least there they had not seemed so out of place.

Unable to stare at the deranged men any longer, she returns her eyes to the boy just as Horton appears with a water skin and hands it to Dagonet.

The giant knight looks at her imploringly and she understands. Kneeling down on the opposite side of the boy from where Dag sits, she ever so gently puts one hand behind the child's back and lifts him into a sitting position, a dark and disgusted shiver running down her spine at the feel of the child's bones under her hand.

Dagonet does not notice her shiver and simply nods to her gratefully. He then cups the boy's face in his left hand. With his right hand, he meticulously pours water into his left, using his hand as a funnel to assist the boy in drinking.

After allowing the boy to drink what he can, he pulls back the water skin, releases the boy's chin, and hands the skin to Horton. He then takes the boy from Iseult, holding him in a sitting position with one arm.

Iseult remains kneeling, staring at the boy, her anger surging with every rise and fall of her chest.

"His arm… is broken," the Bishop's aide breathes, clearly horrified.

Both Dagonet and Iseult eyes are instantaneously drawn to the child's arm and they exchange tired glances. Iseult closes her eyes and sighs while Dagonet puts a gentle hand on the boy's face.

"And his family?" Horton asks, breaking them both from their thoughts.

Dag answers him with a shake of his head, a dark expression upon his face, before looking to where Arthur holds the girl.

"She's a Woad."

Tristan's voice is low as he sheaths his sword, glancing around at this fellow knights. Iseult turns to look at him, a bit of a frown on her face at his words. It is as though he condemns her for being what she is.

"I'm a Roman officer. You're safe," Arthur assures the girl. "You're safe."

"Stop what you are doing!" Marius yells, angrily storming over to where Arthur kneels beside the girl.

Arthur lays the girl down, the Roman's wife taking his place, and he stands.

"What is this madness?"

"They are all pagans here!" exclaims Marius.

It is here that Galahad decides to chime in, "So are we."

At this, Marius becomes even more upset.

"They refuse to do the task God has set for them. They must die, as an example!"

"You mean they refused to be your serfs!" Arthur yells, enraged.

Marius stares at him with contempt and disgust, as if the man's anger is not deserved.

"You are Roman. You understand. And you are a Christian!" he rebukes Arthur before turning on his wife who begins to stand, protectively stepping in front of the girl. "You! You kept her alive!"

As he hits his wife to the ground, Dagonet quickly uses his free hand to grab Iseult's arm as he had earlier. Seeing that she will be unable to reach him and beat him as he deserves, Iseult instead begins to reach for one of her knives to end this tyrant's reign. Before she can even touch one finger to the handle of the knife, however, Arthur punches the Roman in the face, sending him sprawling.

In one smooth motion, the Roman commander pulls his sword from the ground where Lancelot had thrown it and moves the blade to rest at Marius' neck.

"My lord!" one of the guards exclaims, starting to draw his sword.

"No! No, stop!" the swine exclaims nervously before looking up at Arthur, pure hatred burning in his eyes. "When we get to the wall, you will pay for this heresy."

Arthur grabs the man by the collar, pulling him up to a sitting position.

"Perhaps I should kill you now and seal my fate," he says dangerously, clearly considering it.

Iseult and Dagonet—who is still holding her arm out of shock—exchange surprised glances, as do most of the other knights, Lancelot and Tristan excluded. Arthur does not threaten people, but certainly not Romans. He is Roman. Why would he?

Their ponderings, however, are broken by a voice.

"I was willing to die with them. Yes, to lead them to their rightful place. It is God's wish that these sinners be sacrificed. Only then can their souls be saved."

Arthur, the knights, and Iseult all turn their attention to the man. Truthfully, they are all shocked. How is it possible for a human being to be so deluded, so far twisted as to believe that this is acceptable? To believe that harming others to 'save' them is acceptable.

"Then I shall grant His wish," Arthur says. His voice is flat and unemotional, but a fool could easily notice the burning rage within him. "Wall them up."

"Arthur," Tristan's quiet voice warns.

Iseult pivots on her feet to turn her gaze to him. She can see the worry in his eyes. He is tired and worried. Worried that the Saxon will catch up with them.

"I said wall them up!" Arthur yells, completely incensed.

She continues to look at Tristan even as he bows his head in defeat and turns his horse away, riding a little away from the group.

She cannot take her eyes from him even when the villagers begin happily rushing forward to carry out Arthur's orders. The demented monks began yelling about defilers and sinners, and still she does not turn.

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder and it is only this that finally turns her attention from him.

Turning, she sees that it is Dagonet. As she looks at him, he glances at Tristan and then back at her.

"You should go to him," the knight says gently, his eyes soft.

She looks back to Tristan.

For a moment, she debates with herself on whether she will do as Dagonet suggests. Tristan has not attempted to talk to her since they left the wall. Yet… she cannot keep from remembering earlier when she had seen the concern in his eyes.

She continues her internal argument for long enough that doubts that she will even answer. Her mind is made up, however, when she sees Tristan bring a hand to his face and tiredly rub his eyes.

Staring a mere breath longer, she turns again to Dagonet who looks at her questioningly, silently inquiring of her intentions. When she nods, a corner of his mouth upturns into a slight smile.

"When you volunteered to let Flanna ride your horse, I had decided that I was going to let you ride with me on my horse, but it seems that I will be needed elsewhere tending to the girl and the boy. You should ask Tristan if he would allow you to ride with him."

She nods and then stands, stretching once to help loosen the tension in her back before glancing once more at Dagonet.

"Wish me luck."

"You have a knife," the knight jokes. "Besides, you seemed to hold your own against him earlier."

She simply smirks in response, then turns, and begins her walk over to where Tristan is sitting on his horse, watching the horizon line.

About a third of the way over, she sees an almost unnoticeable movement signaling her that he has finally realized her presence. She pretends not to notice that he has noticed her and keeps walking toward him.

Once she is close enough that it is confirmed that she is indeed coming to see him, Tristan turns in his saddle to watch her approach. She stops a foot or two from the side of his horse's flank. He glances at her from the corner of his eye. At first, she merely stands, as if she too is scanning the horizon line for the Saxons that are fast approaching, but then she begins to shift nervously from her left foot to her right.

'So she has something on her mind then,' he thinks, yet still she does not speak.

For a several more moments, they remain in an awkward silence until Tristan turns his horse a little to look at where Arthur is lifting the girl into a wagon. He had advised against more wagons than were absolutely necessary, but apparently, one more was necessary for the boy and the young woman.

He knows better than any of them that they will never be able to outrun the Saxons while transporting all of these people. It simply cannot be done. The Saxons will come upon them and slaughter everyone: elderly, man, woman, child, Roman, Briton, Sarmatian. They are not particular about who their prey are at any given moment. They simply enjoy killing. As Lancelot and Gawain had stated upon the knights learning of Saxon invasion, 'The Saxons only claim what they kill, and they only kill everything.'

Unconsciously, his mouth moves into a frown as he watches the Woad girl, and his frown does not in the slightest go unnoticed by Iseult.

"Why do you look at the poor girl that way? She has suffered much at the hands of the Roman pig," she states.

"She is a Woad."

"She's a person. It doesn't make a difference what kind of person."

She sees a rare flash of anger in Tristan's eyes as he turns to stare at her.

"You do not know of what you speak. The Woads are violent, blood-thirsty demons of this land."

"Similar to what Rome would say of our people."

"There is a difference. Do you know how many knights have died because of them?"

Iseult catches the subtle rise to his voice. Not many others would have heard it, but she does. She shakes her head and sighs.

"She's still a person."

"And the knights were not?"

Once more, she shakes her head. This is not the first conversation she would have preferred the two of them having. She has a feeling that much of this is because he is exhausted and irritable.

Exhaling tiredly she looks to him, "You do not understand what I am saying, Tristan."

"You do not and cannot know what we have gone through at their hands."

"And I'm not pretending to. I _know_ that I cannot know. I am sure that all of you have seen horrible things, watched people that you knew and were good friends with die right in front of you, and I'm sorry that it happened. But you must think about it from their point of view. They are natives to this land. Rome is trying to take over what is rightfully theirs. They will fight whoever comes at them. There is no malice against our people personally. They simply fight whom Rome sends to try to suppress them. How many other nations' people forced into Rome's servitude did our ancestors kill while trying to protect our own land? Is it so different?"

He is silent, clearly agitated but trying to calm himself.

They remain in silence until Iseult sees him looking over the group of people gathering around the wagons. She perceives the slight downturn of his mouth and, despite the previous conversation, she tries to speak to him again.

"What are you thinking?"

He gazes out over the people for so long that she isn't sure that he will answer, but finally he sighs and glances at her.

"All these people. We won't make it. The Saxons will overtake us."

"What else can we do? Leave them? They need our help."

At this, he seems to realize something for the first time.

"Where is your horse?"

The question puzzles her momentarily, her eyebrows scrunching in surprise at the odd query.

"One of the women was pregnant. She's riding because she can't walk and there is no more room in the wagons.

At her answer, Tristan sighs and looks away. This time it is her turn to be irritated.

"What would you have had me do, Tristan? Make her walk in her condition?"

"In this world, it is survival of the fittest. If you are not fit, you cannot survive. Those who try to help them are pulled down with them. We are being pulled down. We will all be killed at Saxon hands."

"How can you _say_ that?" she asks incredulously.

He shrugs. "It is true."

"Arthur is saving, protecting these people from those who would kill them."

"Arthur is a brave leader. He is a good leader. All of us, we would follow him anywhere, but this," he says, his eyes panning over the motley group of people assembled around the wagons, "this is a mistake."

His words are a knife to her heart, twisted and then viciously pulled out. They hit her with such force that she almost staggers back, but she holds her ground.

When his eyes return to her next, he almost visibly flinches. Her face is cold, emotionless, but her eyes are filled with pain.

"Arthur only does for them what you did for me so many years ago. When you saved me, protected me from those who would have harmed me, who would have killed me, that was a mistake, too?"

Tristan realizes to what she has made the connection and for the first time he realizes what he has said. Before he can gather his wits enough to respond, she spins around on her heel and walks away from him.

He watches her leave and his face falls. He had known this would happen. Had been waiting for it. Expecting it. Trying to prevent it by distancing himself. He had known it would happen eventually though. Only a matter of time. He had known. The only difference? He had hurt her in the process of her realizing what he is now.

When they were younger, she had looked up to him like some hero, but eventually, all heroes must fall, and today, he imagines, he has fallen.

And so he watches as she leaves and then tears his eyes away from her retreating form, looking out over the hills from which the enemy would soon arrive.


	11. Sleep

**Chapter Ten: Sleep**

She quickly walks away from him. Almost unthinkingly, she walks toward where Gawain is mounted on his horse, her mind spinning.

What had happened? How did everything go downhill?

The blond knight sees the expression on her face and knows that something must have happened. Looking a little farther back, he sees a likely source. The scout watches after her and, even from where Gawain sits on his horse right now, he can almost sense his brother's weariness.

What had happened?

Iseult reaches him relatively quickly, and he tries to force a smile.

"Can I help you, Iseult?"

"I hate to ask this of you, Gawain, but may I ride with you?"

He acts puzzled, as if he doesn't know why she's asking him.

"I thought you were going to ask Tristan."

He watches as she looks over her shoulder at Tristan.

"I was."

Concerned, he questions, "Did something happen?"

Suddenly, the ground becomes more interesting to her than holding eye contact and she answers, "I'd rather not discuss it now."

"Well," the lion-like knight says, forcing yet another smile. "Who am I to deny assistance to such a beautiful Sarmatian woman?"

She gives him a weak smile as he holds his hand out to her and helps her up to sit behind him.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks.

She nods. "I'm fine… And… thank you, Gawain."

"It's the least I can do."

Not a moment later, they hear Arthur's clear strong voice and both turn to see where he sits upon his horse in front of the caravan.

"Everyone, we must move quickly. Are we all prepared?" There follows a general murmur of agreement and then he speaks again. "Then let us depart and begin our journey to the wall."

Immediately, the wagons and horses start forward. Iseult wraps her arms around Gawain's torso as the horse begins walking. For some time, they ride in this manner, complete silence enveloping them but finally Gawain speaks.

"I may not be a good a listener as Dagonet—I don't know any who are—but if it would help ease your distress, I will do my best," he offers.

For several more long moments, silence reigns, but just when he is beginning to think that she will not answer, she does.

"He said that Arthur saving all these people is a mistake. That me giving my horse to Flanna was a mistake. He said it is survival of the fittest and those who aren't fit don't survive and that those who help them don't survive either…" she says and pauses. "Gawain… Can I tell you a story?"

"I am all ears for you, milady," he smiles, teasing her.

"You have seen the birthmark on my face, yes?" she asks, her voice seeming distant.

Not seeing her line of thought, he is somewhat puzzled but answers her all the same. "Yes. I have seen it. What of it?"

"In my village, a mark such as this is believed to be a sign of the Evil One."

"I see," he nods, still lost as to where she is going with such information.

"It was a source of constant beatings for me," she says, her voice as quiet as the breeze. "The adults of the village. Most of them wanted me killed because they believed that I would bring evil upon them."

"That's horrible. Surely your parents must have persuaded them otherwise."

"I'm sure they would have, but my father died serving Rome days before his term was to end. I never met him. My mother found out she was pregnant with me almost a month after his death. She travelled back to our village with one of the knights returning and later married him. He had been a close friend of my father. When she gave birth to me, my stepfather was horrified upon seeing my birthmark. He said that my mother should throw me into the lake and let me drown, but she would not hear of it. For several years, I grew up sheltered and protected by my mother, hated and occasionally beaten by my stepfather. He was not a bad man, not really. Merely frightened."

Gawain winces. "I am sorry to have brought it up."

"It is alright. The first part of my life, I was more or less safe, but then my mother died giving birth to what would have been my half-brother. Both she and the babe died. My stepfather blamed me. He said it was my evil that had killed them, and he cast me out to fend for myself. I was eight summers old. I knew nothing of how to survive on my own. Thankfully, one of the elders took pity on me. She was an older woman who did not believe that I was evil. She cared for me. She taught me how to find herbs and other things that I could eat. A few seasons after, she died and I was alone again, but this time I knew how to at least find food. What I didn't know was how to protect myself."

Here she pauses and takes in a shaky breath before she continues again.

"One day, not long after she passed… I don't know how or why it came to this… One day… The warrior boys chased me. They intended to kill me. I didn't know how to defend myself, so I ran, but eventually they caught me. They bound me with ropes and decided that they would drown me, and they threw me into the lake. I thought I would die. I couldn't swim under normal circumstances, but I certainly couldn't with my arms and legs bound."

"What happened?" Gawain asks, horrified yet entranced at the same time. "I mean… How are you still alive?"

"Sadly, I don't remember exactly what happened. I suppose I passed out from lack of air. What I do remember, though, is opening my eyes to see a pair of amber ones hovering above me. The next thing, I had flipped myself over and was coughing out water. I remember a rough hand patting my back to try to help me dislodge the water that was still in my throat, stomach, and lungs. When I finally managed to purge all of the water that I possibly could, I remember collapsing. Somewhere in the back of my mind as I began to black out, I heard someone tell me that I would be safe now, and then I fell into unconsciousness."

Gawain hears her sigh and he wonders if she will say more.

"And what happened then?"

"I did not awake for many days, but when I finally did, there he was. The boy who would later become my best and only friend."

"Tristan?" Gawain gasps, almost in shock.

She nods. "Yes. He was not one of the warrior boys that had caught me. He saw what they had done and jumped in after me. He saved me. Saved me from those who would have killed me. After I had recovered enough, he taught me how to defend myself, and then almost a year later, Galvin— our village leader— began teaching me as well. When Tristan was taken, Galvin continued to teach me, but it was Tristan who taught me first."

"I see."

"I have told you all that and probably more than I had originally intended, to say this: He protected and defended me from those who would have killed me. He did the same for me that Arthur does now for these people. What is the difference?"

Gawain sadly smiles, finally understanding her line of thought.

"Tristan tends to think in a very matter of fact way. While I do not agree with him on survival of the fittest per se, I do know he is right about one thing. With this many people, we will never outrun the Saxons. Do you hear their drums?"

"Of course. I have ears do I not?"

"Well, Tristan knows that with all these people, we will be caught and we will be forced to fight."

"But what else could we do? Leave them?"

Gawain sighs, "No. We could not, but there will be consequences for it."

"Then what—"

"I don't know what Tristan was like when you first knew him," begins Gawain, "but fifteen years is a long time. People change."

There is silence for a moment and he is somewhat surprised when he feels her rest her head against his back.

"He couldn't have changed that much."

"Battle can be hard, and watching your brothers fall all around you… It affected all of us."

"He couldn't have changed that much," she repeats, unable to reconcile the Tristan of her childhood and the Tristan of today.

"Maybe he hasn't changed as much as you think," he says, trying to hide the doubtful note in his voice. "Why don't you give him another chance?" He waits a moment for her answer, but none comes. "Iseult?" he calls as he looks over his shoulder, craning his neck to find that she has fallen asleep against his back. He turns to look forward again and a soft smile spreads across his face.

"Well, look at this. Isn't that adorable?" says a familiar voice from beside him. "Are you two comfortable?"

He turns to see Galahad grinning like an idiot. Because of the side on which Galahad is, Gawain realizes that he must not be able to see that Iseult is asleep.

"Shh. Galahad, not now. She sleeps."

Galahad seems surprised and looks to see that she is indeed asleep. He then sheepishly looks back to Gawain and quickly rides ahead.

Gawain shakes his head. For the life of him, he's really not sure what is wrong with the pup. How could anyone ever be so clueless?

He sighs even as another amused smile spreads across his face. When he looks up again, he sees Tristan and catches his eye. The scout looks at him indifferently and then looks away.

Gawain shakes his head and looks over his shoulder again.

"You've got your work cut out for you, I hope you realize."

He receives no answer from the sleeping woman other than a light snore. Smiling, he returns his gaze forward and watches as the scout glances back at them once more before sending his horse ahead to lead the group.

As Gawain looks up at the rapidly darkening sky, he suddenly has a feeling in the pit of his stomach that dark happenings are on the horizon.

What he cannot know, though, is that forces have been set into motion that cannot be undone and those in the way of them have much to fear and even more to lose.

O

They had been riding for quite a while before Gawain feels her stir. After a few more minutes, her grip around his torso tightens, and another moment later, she sits up, one hand releasing her grip on his shirt to rub her eyes.

"You are awake now?" he asks good-naturedly, a smile appearing.

"How long have I slept?"

"Quite some time. You had Arthur and Galahad worried. They found it necessary to continue checking up on you."

"You should have woken me."

Gawain chuckles, "No. You needed to rest."

Silence resumes until a new voice breaks it.

"I see you are awake, Iseult," the voice says, pointedly avoiding the term 'lady' for fear of offending her.

She turns to her left to meet the fatigued yet still determined green eyes of Arthur.

"Yes."

"Are you well? You are not ailing?"

"I was simply tired from my journey. It was a long many months."

"I imagine so," he agrees. Silence descends upon them and it is a moment before he continues. "It was brought to my attention earlier that you may have your horse back now."

Immediately, Iseult stiffens, worry gripping her. Why could she have her horse back? Had something happened to the young woman?

Arthur, seeing her reaction, realizes that what he has said has caused her to be concerned rather than relieved and continues quickly.

"There is nothing wrong. I was informed that you were riding with Gawain and was told the cause of it. We stopped and rearranged slightly and found room for the woman…"

"Flanna," Iseult volunteers.

"Pardon?"

"Flanna. Her name is Flanna."

Arthur nods. "Yes. We found room for her in one of the wagons. I would have told you earlier but thought it best to let you sleep."

She nods, but offers nothing further in way of reply. Another silence comes over the group and Arthur looks around at the people before returning his gaze to Iseult, a thought nagging at his mind.

"You said you were tired. Did you not sleep upon your arrival at the wall?"

"No. I did not sleep before leaving the wall for fear of sleeping too long and missing you as you left on your mission. I could not afford to make such a mistake."

"I see," he says nodding and looking forward. Silence returns a moment before he looks to her again. "Why were you so determined to accompany us?"

"Would you not, were it your friend?" she replies, looking at him and making eye contact with him.

The expression in her eyes makes him catch his breath. Staring into her eyes is like looking into the depths of a fire and watching the wood burn. This is the view into her spirit, of that he is certain. Such intensity is difficult to gaze upon for extended periods and, suddenly uncomfortable, he nods, clears his throat, and looks away from her.

"Yes, well," Arthur says breaking the awkward silence. "I will retrieve your horse and—"

"There is no need, Arthur," begins Gawain. "I will ride up there."

"Very well."

Gawain nudges his horse to pick up the pace a little and they leave Arthur.

When they reach Iseult's horse, which Jols had been leading while riding his own, Gawain slows his horse to keep pace alongside them.

"Will you be wanting to ride, Iseult?" Jols asks upon seeing that she is awake.

By way of answer, Iseult gracefully moves from Gawain's horse to her own. Both men blink a few times, a little surprised at the ease with which she moves, but then Iseult looks to Jols and holds out her hand for the reins. He hands them to her without a word.

"Thank you, Jols," she says, nodding to him.

He nods back in reply. "She's a fine horse. I can tell you've taken good care of her. Does she have a name?"

"Mairete."

He nods once more and a hush descends upon the group.

After several minutes, Gawain looks over at Iseult. She is glancing around the frozen landscape, taking in her surroundings. Turning to look forward, he almost smiles upon seeing Tristan doing much the same, his hawk perched on his arm.

Gawain sighs. What had happened earlier had upset her and, he suspects, Tristan as well, though he honestly cannot attest to the scout acting any differently than his usual. Regardless of the scout's indifference, Gawain is almost certain that Tristan, too, has been affected by Iseult's earlier conversation with him which had ended so badly.

Truth be told, just knowing what had transpired between Iseult and Tristan saddens him and he was not even a party to it. The idea of them having such a bad conversation distresses him for some reason. The fact that these two had apparently been best friends—at least by Iseult's estimations—only serves to pain him even more.

From what Iseult had confided in him, she had practically worshipped the scout, though gods know why. But then again, he does know why. Even as distant and unattached as Tristan is, he has always put his brothers first. His current haggard appearance gives proof of that.

Suddenly, he cannot restrain himself from speaking his thoughts on the matter.

"You know, you really should try talking to him again," he says quietly, finally breaking the silence. "I am sure he is… unhappy with how the last conversation ended between the two of you."

Iseult sighs and reaches up to rub her eyes. "Earlier, I was merely tired and upset. I have no intention of giving up because of one bad conversation, I assure you, Gawain."

"I am glad you do not give up so easily. That may be a good quality to have," smiles Gawain, trying to lighten her mood. "I am sure things will work out as they should."

Iseult opens her mouth to respond, but another voice interrupts her.

"Hold!" Arthur calls from the front of the caravan. The wagons stop and then he speaks again. "Knights!"

Gawain, Iseult, and Jols all turn their eyes toward the man, and they watch as he gestures for the knights to come forward.

The golden-haired knight stares at his commander a moment longer before giving Iseult a smile and a nod and riding toward Arthur.

Iseult watches as he and the others ride forward. , Having heard Arthur's call and climbed out of the wagon and onto his horse, Dag rides by and she gives him a nod. Her eyes linger on the form of a certain dark scout before turning her horse, having every intention of checking on Flanna. Just as she has turned the horse, however, she hears someone call her name.

Turning forward again, she sees the knights turned in their saddles and looking at her from up ahead. It takes her no time at all to realize Dagonet had called her.

She stares at them a moment longer, uncertain of what to do, before Arthur waves for her to join them.

Thinking that something might be wrong, her eyebrows furrow. She urges Mairete forward at a fast trot. Upon reaching them, Dagonet discreetly moves his horse over ever so slightly, ensuring that the only open space for her is between he and Tristan.

Realizing his motive, she gives him a discreet glare, at which he merely upturns one corner of his mouth in amusement. Casting one look toward Tristan—who is looking at Arthur without a single glance in her direction— she moves into the space between he and Dagonet.

As soon as she looks to Arthur, he addresses her in a kind, yet stern manner.

"Iseult, though you are not one of my knights, you have travelled with us in warrior capacity and you have sworn to follow my commands. For this reason, know that, should I call my knights forward, I wish you to come as well."

She nods her understanding and Arthur goes on to speak to all those gathered. "We'll sleep here. Take shelter in those trees," he says as he points toward them and then looks to one knight in particular.

"Tristan."

Without further explanation, for he needs none, Tristan looks to the hawk on his arm.

"You wanna go out again?" The hawk squawks in reply and Tristan nods. "Yeh." He throws his arm upward, giving the hawk momentum as she lifts off. Almost immediately, Tristan sends his horse galloping forward. He can almost feel a pair of dark eyes on him until he disappears beyond the snow and trees. Curiously, he finds himself hoping that they are not fixed in a glare.

He need not even have considered such a thought, however, because no matter how their last conversation had ended, she would not be able to glare at him right now. She knows, as well as any of the knights do, that with the enemy so close, he is in clear and constant danger.

No, there is no glare fixed upon him. Even the least observant of the knights catch the worry in her eyes, and they cannot help but wonder—as they watch him ride off as well—whether or not their own eyes betray such anxiety.

"Knights," Arthur begins, regaining everyone's attention. "Help the people to set up camp. They are unused to doing so. I will see that all of them know what we plan to do."

Thus spoken, he rides down the line passing along his orders from atop his horse.

Several hours later, it is dark and the makeshift camp is made. The people, weary from travel, lie down to rest on the cold ground, many of them huddling closely together for warmth while the he knights have scattered themselves throughout the encampment and are keeping watch.

Iseult, on the other hand, is unsure as to what she plans on doing with herself. She decides, after several moments of deliberation, that first she must check on Flanna.

Temporarily leaving Mairete's saddle with Jols, she walks toward where those from the estate are gathered. It is without much trouble that she finds Flanna; bright red hair does tend to stand out no matter how large the crowd.

Seeing the young woman sitting on the ground wrapped up in a blanket, she notices how much more fragile and weak her young friend now looks. So much travel cannot be easy in her current condition. Without meaning to do so, Iseult's mind inadvertently wanders to rather dark questions: Would the woman survive the journey? Would she be one of the ones whom Tristan and Gawain had both seemed certain would perish?

She had already been in such poor condition prior to the travel...

Iseult stops far enough away that she remains unseen, yet close enough to observe the shiver Flanna tries to hide. The cough she chokes back. The exhaustion on her face.

In that moment, Iseult turns around on her heel and walks in the opposite direction. Walking with purpose, she comes to the wagon the Roman woman and Alecto are occupying. Without much thought as to what she will say, she knocks on the wood of the wagon. A moment later, the Roman's wife appears at the door.

The woman's eyes widen slightly at the sight of Iseult. She had seen her earlier at the estate, especially when she had given up her horse so that one of the serfs, a heavily pregnant young woman, would not have to walk. She had automatically respected the warrior who was willing to walk if it meant someone not as well off as she would be cared for by her sacrifice.

A tall, female warrior. The woman can see simply from looking at her that she is strong and proud, something she wishes she could be. She could not even stand up for herself to her husband. She had to have a Roman commander she did not know defend her instead.

"Lady," Iseult says in greeting while also trying to stall long enough for her to think of something to say.

The Roman woman nods in response, noticing the warrior woman's hesitation. Watching as she shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, the woman gives her a small, reassuring smile.

Honestly, Iseult is not entirely sure what she had been thinking coming over here, but for some reason—based on how the Lady had tried to keep the girl and boy alive—she had felt that she should come to her.

"Do you need something?" the woman asks and Iseult snaps from her thoughts and decides that the most forward way would be the best.

"Yes… Not me, though. My friend. She is pregnant. The journey has been very difficult for her and she's very cold right now. Is there a blanket that you are not using which you could spare?"

Realizing that this female warrior can only be speaking of the pregnant serf, she is somewhat shocked. She had only met the girl earlier today and yet she already calls her 'friend'?

"Your friend?"

"Yes," Iseult answers, hesitating only a moment before she continues. "She is my friend. Her name is Flanna… She is one of your serfs."

The Roman nods before appearing to think about something. For a moment, she says nothing, but finally she glances around and then looks to Iseult.

"My husband will not be sleeping in here tonight. He will sleep in his own wagon. It will only be my son Alecto and me in here," she says before pausing as if to assure herself that her decision is the right one. "If you will bring her, she may sleep in here with us."

At her words, it is Iseult whose eyes widen in surprise.

"I do not wish you inconvenienced."

"It is no inconvenience. Certainly considering what my husband has done to all of them, a night to sleep shielded from the snow and cold is not too much to give. The poor girl should not have to sleep out in the cold in her condition. We will not even notice. There is more than enough room for us and her as well."

A bit in awe of the woman now, Iseult bows slightly, then looks her straight in the eyes.

"Thank you, Lady."

The woman shakes her head. "My name is Fulciana, and yours?"

"Iseult."

"It is nice to meet you."

Iseult nods in reply before smiling. "And you."

Having thus spoken, she turns and walks back in the direction from whence she came. Reaching her destination quickly, she sees her young friend with her arms wrapped as tightly around herself as is possible. The word 'fragile' comes to mind and she can only think about what Tristan had said earlier about survival of the fittest.

She shakes her head to clear it of unwanted thoughts just as she reaches her friend and stands beside her.

"Hello, Iseult," Flanna greets, breaking into a smile as she looks up at her.

"Flanna," Iseult responds with a nod, a smile of her own threatening to appear. She holds her hand out to her. "Come. Walk with me."

Flanna grips her hand and Iseult helps her to stand. By the time she is on her feet, she is winded. Iseult knows that the effort has tired her greatly, but she also knows that the end result will be worth it.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"Aye. I'm fine."

Iseult holds her arm out to her and the young woman smiles gratefully as she places her hand in the crook of her arm for support. They begin walking in this manner, Flanna with one hand on Iseult's elbow, the other supporting her stomach, Iseult with one arm supporting Flanna and her free hand on the hilt of her sword.

Falling into silence, neither having anything to say, they  
simply walk together. The silence is neither uncomfortable nor awkward; it is simply silence.

Finally, Iseult glances over at Flanna and sees her frowning ever so slightly. Following her line of sight, Iseult sees why.

"Flanna," she says, getting her attention. "The Roman pig will trouble you no more. I assure you he will not."

She watches as the woman's eyebrows draw together

"Marius willn't take well t' Arthur ordering him aroun'. Ye mark my words, Iseult. I know Marius, have seen what he can do first hand, an' I tell ye now: he will try something. He and his men _will_ try something, and I fear that it may end badly."

Iseult turns her head to look at the man and then to an area not that far away where Dagonet and the boy are preparing for sleep.

She frowns. They are too close. If any would be in danger, they would. Especially the boy.

This time it is Flanna's turn to follow Iseult's gaze, and when she does, she understands without asking why a dark shadow has fallen over her friend's face.

" 't might be a good idea for ye t' sleep o'er with them, Iseult."

The warrior stares a moment longer before nodding.

"I believe you may be right."

"Ye best go now or Dagonet will fall asleep before ye can warn him."

She is not sure what it is, but something in Flanna's voice makes Iseult turn to her, and she notices that the petite woman's eyes are soft as she looks at the giant knight.

Iseult's soft chuckle causes Flanna to break from whatever her thoughts had been to look at her.

"An' what would ye be a-laughin' at?" Flanna asks, frowning.

"Naught," she smiles the warrior, her eyes mischievously twinkling.

"Ye lie."

This time a laugh escapes her before she looks to Flanna seriously, yet still with a smile. "Why do you look at him so?"

The effect of her words is immediate as she sees the woman's skin color suddenly enter into competition with her flaming red hair.

"Now don't be a gettin' any crazy ideas in that head o' yours, Iseult. He's been kind t' me is all."

"Is it?" she asks, brown eyes sparkling as she stops by Fulciana's wagon. She knocks on the wagon and Flanna stares strangely at her. Why had Iseult brought her here?

A second later, the door opens to reveal Fulciana.

"Flanna, Fulciana has been kind enough to offer you a place in the wagon with her tonight. Her husband will be in his own wagon." Seeing Flanna's eyes widen in surprise, Iseult then looks to the Roman woman and smiles.

"Thank you for what you are doing. You are a kind woman. Do not let yourself feel guilty for that which your husband is responsible. You did what you could and saved two people. I believe you are a good person indeed. Thank you… Fulciana."

She almost thinks she sees the Roman's eyes get a little misty in the dim light but just as quickly the woman blinks and looks to Flanna.

"Come, child. Let me help you inside."

Iseult assists Fulciana in helping Flanna inside and then takes a step back.

"Goodnight, Fulciana. Goodnight, Flanna."

Fulciana nods by way of reply, a kind smile on her face, whereas Flanna speaks.

"G'night, Iseult," Flanna says but then remembers something, "And aye! 'tis all!"

The red-haired woman's words are met by naught but a gust of cold night air carrying upon it, what might have been, an amused chuckle, and then Fulciana shuts the door.


	12. Lover

**Chapter Eleven: Lover**

He catches movement out of the corner of his eyes just as he is about to lie down, and—recognizing the figure—props himself up on his elbows, watching her approach. When he makes eye contact with her, he nods and she returns the gesture.

Upon reaching him, she sits down in front of him, feeling more than one pair of curious eyes on her.

She looks slightly behind Dagonet to the boy who holds her gaze for a moment before looking down. Seeing who she is looking at, the giant knight glances over his shoulder to the boy.

"Lucan," the knight says, his voice soft.

Immediately, the boy looks up and Dagonet continues.

"Lucan, this is Iseult. You remember her, don't you?"

They both watch as the boy's eyes return to Iseult and he squints as if trying to decide if he does or not. Having done so, he looks back to Dagonet and nods.

"It's good to see you again, Lucan," she states, giving the boy a gentle smile. "Are you feeling better?"

He nods once more, his hair falling into his face. Smiling, she slowly reaches across the space between them to carefully brush his curly hair from his eyes. "You fight with unruly hair as I do, don't you, Lucan?"

Once more he nods and her smile broadens.

"I can't promise it will get any better but at the least it should keep you warmer during the winter," she says before looking to Dag and winking. "Dagonet, here, he doesn't have such hair and so he must simply freeze."

Her statement is accompanied by a final nod of her head as if she has just stated some great truth, the motion sending her own curls into disarray. With an exaggerated sigh, she reaches up and pulls her hair back into a ponytail.

"I'd trade with him."

Both Dag and Iseult blink at the child in surprise before they both laugh, and slowly, a weak smile spreads across the boy's face.

Iseult once more reaches out, this time gently ruffling his hair, earning a small laugh from the boy.

"I can see now you're a rascal, aren't you? Quick-witted. Yes. You'll be just fine, I believe."

Dagonet is unable to ignore that for once, her smile seems to reach her eyes, appearing to make her almost transformed. Much different from the battle-hardened warrior she is by day with everyone watching her. Right now, she is at ease. Clearly, her trust is not earned easily, and so he feels honored that she trusts him enough to be this different part of herself with him.

She looks up at him, the smile still in her eyes, and he cannot keep from returning the smile. He can definitely see what one reason might have been for Tristan befriending her so long ago. There's simply something about the woman. She just has this way about her that is puzzling, yet somehow compelling.

As the three fall into silence, his mind drifts to the matter of the scout. What is Tristan thinking? How can he treat one of his oldest friends as he has Iseult? True, it has been many moons since they have seen one another, but—were he in Tristan's position— that would only make him more determined to speak with her, to try to learn about her once more after his absence of so many long years.

The funny thing is that only once does Dagonet ever remember Tristan speaking of Sarmatia, and it had been the one time that he had even hinted of someone back in their homeland.

There had been a particularly bad battle that had claimed several great knights. Just as any other time such an event happened, the mood was dark and somber; many of the remaining knights had been in the tavern, drinking themselves into oblivion. Dagonet, being of the character he is, always avoided such binge drinking, finding it necessary to go around to the knights making sure that each was uninjured and not in any danger of being injured due to unclear or clouded thinking.

He had just managed to haul a thoroughly drunk Gawain back to his quarters only after narrowly avoiding the blond man starting a fight with a Roman soldier. On his way from Gawain's room, he had to pass Tristan's room to exit the knights' barracks, in order to return to the tavern.

As he came closer to Tristan's door, he saw that it was partially cracked. When he had seen this, he had stopped right in the middle of the hallway and stared at the door.

To say the least, he was curious; after all, Tristan never under any circumstances had ever left his door open. The scout, with his dry sense of humor, had always pointed out that leaving one's door open usually meant one of the other knights would take that as an invitation to enter, sit, and talk which would lead to one thing: blood. This had always been said with such a straight face that Dagonet had never quite been able to decide whether his rather enigmatic brother-in-arms was joking or not.

Needless to say, the sight of the ajar door worried him. Had something happened? Had one of the Romans attempted something? His worries building with each thought that raced through his tired mind, he decided that he could not simply leave until he was certain that the scout was okay.

Upon approaching the door, he quieted his footfalls and started to lean forward to listen just long enough to dispel his fear; yet just as he had done so, the door opened fully to reveal a somewhat dishelved Tristan.

'Next time you are trying to eavesdrop on someone, you should walk more quietly. I heard you from the start of the hall,' the man had said, his same straight face in place, yet his voice held a slight slur to it, and Dagonet would have sworn that he could smell a greater amount of alcohol on the man's breath than was usual for Tristan.

Having taken slight offense to how his completely innocent motives had been skewed by his brother, he had frowned.

'I meant nothing by it.'

Tristan had looked at him with the same calculating stare he practices now when analyzing someone and then seemed to decide that he was telling the truth.

For a moment, the two had just stood in slightly awkward silence, neither really knowing what to say. Finally, Tristan had turned on his heel and walked back into his room, sitting in a chair by his window. Dagonet had looked back and forth between the scout and the door before he decided that he should leave.

Before he could turn to go, though, Tristan had spoken.

'Why were you listening?'

'I simply saw your door open and wished to make certain you were alright.'

'And if I had been _otherwise_ occupied?'

He had known without further elaboration what Tristan had meant. Many of the knights had frequent… encounters with the tavern women. He himself had not really participated in that aspect of life at the Wall, but he knew many did.

However, he had never seen Tristan leave with a woman. He would always beat Gawain and Galahad at knife-throwing, break up a fight or two, finish his drink, and leave. Nothing said, nothing implied. He would just leave. Oftentimes, he wouldn't even say goodnight. He would simply be there one moment and gone the next.

'Tristan… Forgive me if I am overstepping, but I do not think I have ever seen you with a woman here at the Wall.'

A short humorless chuckle escapes from the scout's lips.

'Because I have not," he states. 'Many of the women here, they are cheap and vain. I have no use for such women.'

'Some of them are nice. Vanora, for instance.'

'Vanora is the exception,' Tristan answers, still staring out the window, not even sparing a glance at Dagonet.

A few more seconds passed and again, Dagonet was debating leaving when Tristan spoke again.

'What do you remember of home?'

For one stunned moment, Dagonet said nothing. Every one of the knights, even Arthur, knew that Tristan disliked speaking of Sarmatia. Whenever it was brought up, he would leave if he was able, and if he was not, he would simply ignore any questions thrown his way.

'Not much to be honest. Mostly my grandfather.'

'Grandfather?'

'He died a year before I left my village.'

'Hm.'

'…What do you remember?'

'Green hills… Horses running free over the hills… Learning to ride a horse for the first time and riding until I couldn't anymore…Climbing sturdy old trees that we would sit in for hours...'

Dagonet looked up at the scout with a puzzled look on his face at having heard one particular word.

'We?' Dagonet had asked, and then flinched. He had not meant to ask his mental question aloud.

In that instant, Tristan stiffened. He turned to look at Dagonet, his mask firmly in place.

'As you can see, Dagonet, I am uninjured. Perhaps you should continue on to one of the others.'

Dagonet had already checked everyone, but he took the words for what he knew them to be; Tristan was "politely" telling him to leave.

Without another word, he turned and left, making sure to shut the door firmly behind him.

He had never quite forgotten what Tristan had said that night. Had the 'we' he had spoken of been referring to himself and Iseult?

Forcing himself from his thoughts, he glances over his shoulder and smiles at the sight he sees. Lucan had finally fallen asleep. Barely moving, he turns just enough to pull up his armor a little to cover the boy as much as possible.

Having done so, the knight looks to Iseult whose gaze is directed elsewhere. Following her gaze merely out of habit, he sees that the objects of her piercing glare are Marius and the Roman guards. Unfortunately, Dagonet knows that she must have something on her mind, and a frown tugs at the corners of his mouth.

He had seen them murmuring earlier amongst themselves just before Iseult had approached, but he had been unable to make anything of the low sound. His ears may not be quite as good as they had once been—over the years being affected by the shouts and clangings of battle. Judging by the look on Iseult's face, though, her ears are much better.

He places a gentle hand on her arm, and she turns to face him.

"What is it?" he asks quietly, his low voice barely heard even to her keen ears.

She realizes the Romans and their horrible master are watching, and she thinks quickly. Her back still to the Romans, she tries to warn Dagonet with a quick glance toward the guards. He realizes what she is telling him and looks to her for what to do.

Winking at him, she mouths for him to play along and waits for him to discreetly nod before she places a hand on her shoulder.

"Lover, your shoulders are so tense!" she exclaims, not overly loud, but loud enough that the Romans straining their ears to hear something can hear it.

Thankfully, Dag's surprise does not show; instead, he does as she has asked and plays along, silently hoping that Tristan is still out scouting.

The scout may not know what his feelings are regarding Iseult, but Dagonet is fairly certain that the scout's brother being in such relations with someone he at one time considered a friend would not end well for the brother involved. It does not in the least matter that Dagonet is a full four inches taller or that he is stronger-built than the lithe scout. He had learned that lesson several years ago back at the Wall when a few Romans had decided to attempt carrying out a vendetta against the scout by capturing something precious to him in the from of Tristan's hawk. It had not ended well for them either.

Once more having to force himself from his thoughts, he nods.

"It has been a long ride and this winter air does nothing to ease the matter."

"Why don't you turn so I can rub those shoulders of yours? Would that help, you think?"

"It might. You don't mind?"

"Not at all, Love. You know I help you any way I can," she replies, knowing full well what she has implied.

Dag turns quickly, feeling the blush start to creep up his neck. Yes, he very much hopes that Tristan is still out scouting, far out of earshot of such a remark.

Once he is situated, Iseult settles herself almost flush against his back, as close as she can be while still being able to rub his shoulders. She begins to do just that as she leans forward to whisper in his ear.

"Sorry, Dag. They were wary until I said that. Though, if I'd known you'd blush so, I might have thought of something else to say," she chuckles quietly.

"Did they notice?" he asks worriedly.

She shoots a discreet glance over her shoulder before replying to him.

"No, you turned in time. Aren't you glad none of the other knights are around, though?"

He chuckles as well, a rumble coming from deep in his chest. "I'd never live it down."

"No, I think you wouldn't."

"What was it you needed to tell me?"

"Marius is over there trying to rile the guards. He's not happy about the current situation."

"I thought as much. Did you catch any of what they were saying?"

"Not really. Just fragments, but it didn't sound very friendly toward Arthur or anyone else for that matter. Flanna told me she knows that Marius won't take Arthur ordering him around. She said that he will try something. She feared for you and the boy and asked me to sleep over here with the two of you tonight."

Dag's eyebrows furrow. The idea of Iseult—Tristan's 'once' best friend who happens to be a woman—for all practical purposes sleeping with him does not truly appeal to his common sense or decency. Despite pure motives, he is not thrilled with the thought.

"I am not sure that is such a good idea," he says, speaking most of his thoughts yet leaving _unless you want me dead_ entirely unvoiced. "Perhaps you could bring one of the other knights over," he suggests, but he knows as soon as he has said it that it will not work for the very reason Iseult mentions.

"Too suspicious. They'd know something was going on."

Dagonet sighs, finally admitting the issue. "Honestly, Iseult. I am uncomfortable with you sleeping over here."

Silence falls for a moment before he hears her snort.

"Dagonet… Are you concerned about… my_ honor_?" she asks, a note of humor and incredulity in her voice. He can hear that she is trying to restrain laughter; obviously, she is highly amused.

"That is one concern."

"And the other?" she questions, still having to hold her laughter in check.

'_Waking in the middle of the night with a knife to my throat_,' he thinks but shakes his head rather than speaking.

Seeing she will get no answer, she continues.

"I would sleep on the other side of the boy. If anyone tried anything tonight, they would very quickly realize their mistake. I sleep lightly."

He would swear that he can almost hear in her voice the wicked smirk that he knows must be on her face. He has no doubt that what she spoke was truth.

Still, he is not completely enthused with the suggestion, but knowing that having one of them on either side of Lucan would keep the boy safer, he hesitates for a moment, then nods.

"Alright," she says as she stops rubbing his shoulders and simply rests her hands there. She pauses for a moment before adding, "You know. I wasn't lying about your shoulder being stiff. Are they better now?"

She moves her hands, watching as he rolls his shoulders and blinks in surprise.

"Yes. Much. I didn't even realize they were so stiff. Thank you," he says as he turns to how he had been sitting earlier.

Smiling, she nods.

"I am glad I could help."

For a moment, they simply sit in companionable silence but upon Dagonet looking over at Iseult, he sees that she is staring at him, her eyebrows furrowed.

"What is it?"

"Thinking. I never did thank you," she replies. Seeing his puzzled expression, she thinks of how to elaborate. "In the dungeon at the estate… Thank you."

She is unused to having to thank people and feels awkward in trying to do so, especially when it means explaining the reason she was thanking them. She really does not want to explain why she had reacted in the manner she did in the dungeon or how Dagonet being there and having his hand on her shoulder had comforted her when in the presence of such sights as they had beheld in the dungeon.

He nods. Though he is still uncertain as to what she is thanking him, he will not push her for a clearer answer. He suspects that the result might be the same as when he had asked Tristan to whom 'we' referred. He does not expect an explanation, finding it enough to have been helpful.

"You are welcome."

She releases a harsh laugh, easily catching the attention of the Romans and to cover her slip up, she leans forward as if sharing some intimate secret with—who the guards and the Roman think to be—her lover.

"Sorry. I was just suddenly struck with the notion that you haven't the slightest idea for what you are being thanked."

She leans back again, certain that the Romans' curiosity has been satisfied.

"You needn't tell me. It is enough to know that in some way I was of help to you."

At his words, they continue to hold eye contact, staring at one another. His is a complacent, comfortable gaze, but he cannot resist likening hers to that of Tristan when he is puzzled by something or other. Both she and the scout have an almost unnerving stare that seems to penetrate through to one's soul, reading the depths of it.

After what seems an eternity, she simply nods in understanding, then stands and walks around to the other side of the sleeping boy. Carefully, so as not to wake Lucan, she sits down. Stretching out her legs, sore from the long ride, she looks around once, assuring herself that the Romans are still where she had last seen them. Noting that they have not moved, she lies down, resting her head on her arm.

Following her example, Dagonet lies down as well but not before discreetly checking the dagger tucked into his boot. Even as he closes his eyes and slowly allows himself to drift into sleep, he has a suspicion that he will need the weapon ere long.


	13. Corpse

**Chapter Twelve: Corpse**

Iseult had not slept well all night, nerves too high strung from threat of attack. This is not to say that she had not slept. She had, but it had been fleeting and troubled, plagued by nightmares and other such horrific imaginings as are left to the mind at night. In the end, she had been awake more often than not.

When the first rays of dawn had peeked over the horizon line, she entirely gave up on the idea of sleep but opted to stay lying down.

Even with her back to him, she knows that Dagonet has experienced no trouble sleeping, as evidenced by the occasional snore she had heard throughout the night.

Clearly, the past few days had exhausted the knight. He had been working tirelessly to help the boy and the young woman. Without his persistence, neither would have survived—of that much she is certain. The knight certainly deserves what rest he can find.

Debating whether or not she should stand—her bones are more or less frozen and stiff, the cold night air feeling as if it has seeped into them, and she can't help but think it will take quite a bit of stretching and walking to ever feel warm again—she stares out at where the sunlight is falling in patches on the snow and on the trees, creating an almost surreal scene. The snow sparkles with the new light and the trees seem to send a faint glow around them, as if the land itself is enchanted.

For a mere moment, she allows herself to admire the beauty of the view before her; yet just as she has decided to rise and prepare her horse, an entirely different chain of events unfold.

"Seize him!"

She gasps and turns just in time to see two of the Roman guards drag Dagonet into the snow. He wakes with a start. His surprise is evident, but in the blink of an eye, it has changed to rage. He punches one guard while still on the ground but the other guard kicks him in the stomach, effectively knocking the breath from him.

"No!" the boy yells from beside her.

This reaction draws her from her shock and brings her to action.

Even as two of the guards grab Dag's arms and he continues struggling, she leaps to her feet and springs forward, tackling another guard to the ground.

As she rolls back to her feet, she looks at Dag only long enough to assure herself he is all right—the two Roman guards stumbling backwards is proof enough that he is—and then she pulls a knife from the top compartment of her boot.

Another of the Roman guards draws a knife as well and advances on her. As soon as she gets a good look at his face, she recognizes him, and an angered snarl rips from her throat. Judging by the look on his face, he recognizes her as well.

It is the same man whom she had kept from hitting Flanna just yesterday.

Even as she hears another blade being drawn, she sends only the fleetest of glances back to see that it is Dagonet who has drawn his dagger and not another of the guards.

Despite how quickly she had glanced over her shoulder at him, she knows the short fray has tired him. She notices he has been practically gasping for breath and somewhere in the back of her mind, she wonders if perhaps the guard's previous kick to his ribs had actually caused damage.

Before she can even attempt to step her way back to Dagonet and tighten their defenses, she catches movement from the corner of her eye and looks. Even as she takes in the scene, maniacal laughter fills the air.

"I have the boy!"

"Lucan!" Iseult cries upon seeing the knife at the child's throat. Why hadn't she stayed with him? Dag could have taken care of himself. Lucan could not.

Iseult's slight hesitation is not missed by the guard. He recognizes the opportunity and knocks the knife from her hand, seizing her, one arm barred across her shoulders, right at the base of her neck, the other holding a knife to her throat. Iseult immediately freezes and curses herself inwardly for such an error.

Dagonet stands ready but uncertain as his eyes dart between the guards he is facing, Iseult, and Lucan. Experienced in battle as he is, Dagonet knows he has been quite effectively stopped.

Had Iseult not been captured, it would have been a small matter for him to have easily taken care of the Roman and save Lucan while she took care of the guards. With her and Lucan hostages, however, his hands are tied. He can do nothing but watch and wait for an opening.

"Kill him," Marius tells the guards, indicating Dagonet.

"No don't!" yells a voice, and both Dag and Iseult watch helplessly as Fulciana tries to tackle her husband. "Let him go!"

Without effort, Marius shoves his wife down and looks to the guards who are hesitating, staring between Fulciana and Marius.

The guards glance to each other, faltering even as an arrow pierces Marius's chest, missing Lucan by mere inches. In shock, Marius freezes and looks down to the arrow sprouting from his chest as though it were some lethal flower.

Spinning, Dagonet sees Guinevere approaching, a bow in her hand as she walks, already notching another arrow.

As Marius begins to fall, his grip loosens and Lucan runs to Dag who picks him up and slings him behind him, throwing his dagger down to the boy. In one smooth motion, he transitions from this action to pulling his sword and facing the Romans once more, this time focusing his gaze on the guard holding the knife to Iseult's neck.

Though his intention had been only to look at the guard, his attention is instead caught by Iseult who makes eye contact with him. What startles him is that there is no fear in her eyes, only determination. But for what?

Seeing that she has caught his attention, she looks down and then up to him once more. She repeats the action and it does not take much for Dagonet to realize that she is doing just as Tristan had done in the forest before, signaling him to look at something.

He discreetly does so and his shock almost betrays him and her.

Iseult had been slowly raising an arm to her waist without so much as twitching her shoulder… and now she holds a shiny knife in her hand.

She looks at him with a defiant gleam in her eyes, and he is not certain what she plans on doing with the knife but then, in one smooth motion, she grabs the guard's arm. In the blink of an eye, the knife is buried in the guard's side, and she has flipped his grip from her, letting him fall with a dead thud to the ground.

Retrieving her knife, she casually walks to Dagonet's side, positioning herself to take on another guard should the need arise and expectantly stares at them.

Within moments, Iseult is aware of Bors riding into the clearing, axe in hand and yelling 'Artorius!' before stopping behind the guards.

"Do we have a problem?" he almost growls. "Huh?"

Arthur, who Iseult has just realized is standing with Excalibur drawn and pointing at the guards, speaks.

"You have a choice. You help or you die."

The main guard quickly drops his sword, followed by a second.

"Put down your weapons," the guard orders. "Do it now!"

"Hyah!" Dagonet readies his sword and shouts, a warrior sound which warns of bloodshed to come.

The guards hear Dagonet's yell, instantaneously, all weapons seem to drop. Arthur nods to Jols who had also appeared without Iseult's noticing, so intent had she been on watching for trouble. Jols, understanding Arthur's gesture, immediately begins retrieving the discarded weapons.

The loud neighing of a horse catches everyone's attention and they turn to see Tristan riding toward them from the deep woods, some wooden contraption slung over his shoulder.

"How many'd you kill?" Bors asks the returning scout.

"Four," was the winded reply.

Bors laughs darkly, "Not a bad start to the day."

Iseult watches as Tristan, horribly exhausted and out of breath, throws the wooden machine down at Arthur's feet, revealing it to be a crossbow.

"Armor-piercing. They're close. We have no time."

"You ride ahead," Arthur instructs him.

Even from where she stands, Iseult can see the nearly vacant look in the scout's eyes. Clearly, he had gone without sleep for far too long and was weary to the bone. Dark circles framed his usually clear, ever observant eyes, adding an almost haunted appearance to his expression, as if he were a corpse.

As he turns his horse to leave, Iseult cannot suppress a shiver. Dagonet gently puts an arm around her shoulders, mistaking her shivered premonition for simple cold.

It is not much longer before everyone has packed up the camp and they quickly continue on their way.

As they travel, Tristan has been periodically reappearing to report to Arthur, each time appearing the worse for wear. Iseult is unsure if it is his lack of sleep or that he has encountered Saxon scouts in some of the ventures ahead of the caravan. Each time, she worries a little for his safety.

Beyond that, she wants to talk to him again, to see if she can clear the air from their earlier conversation at Marius' estate. The opportunity never affords itself, though, and thus she must only watch as he appears, speaks to Arthur, and then is sent out again.

Occasionally in the somber trek across snow-covered landscape, she is able to speak to Gawain or Dagonet, but that becomes more and more rare as they progress.

She watches the snowy scenery carefully, almost in a paranoid manner, trying to discern any threats before they have the possibility of doing harm. However, none appear as they follow the winding path Tristan had reported to Arthur.

At long last, they emerge at a wide-open plain of ice. It is the frozen lake she had overheard Tristan mention to Arthur one of the few times she had been close during his report.

And there is Tristan.

As she has been traveling closer to the end of the line, Arthur and the other knights reach the scout first, but she quickly follows, arriving just in time to hear Tristan say, "No. We have to cross the ice."

His voice is so quiet, calm. She knows by this, either he is confident in the safety of crossing or, more likely, he is simply resigned to the danger of it.

There is the slightest pause before Arthur speaks.

"Get them out of the carriages. Tell them to spread out."

The command immediately starts everyone filtering out of the carriages and everyone on horseback dismounting from their trusty but tired steeds. Once accomplished, they all stand at the edge of the ice, staring across it, many with no small amount of trepidation. Now awaits the uncertainty. Just one bit of misplaced weight, just one wrong step onto ice that is thinner or weaker than the rest and all can be lost.

"Let's go," Arthur distractedly orders after a moment. He, too, is thinking of the risk, praying to his God that everyone survives the crossing. This journey cannot be entirely for nothing, yes? Surely God must have some bigger plan or purpose than for all to perish here when they have already traveled so far!

With his words, Arthur and his knights as well as Iseult, Horton, and Jols lead their horses forward ahead of everyone, warily watching the ice as they do so. The bravest souls follow the knights next, those remaining follow behind them, carefully tracing their path.

Iseult only pays the ice half a mind at the moment, however. Quite frequently, her thoughts wander from the current predicament to certain people; Flanna, Lucan, Fulciana, but more than any other, to Tristan. More often than not, in fact, her eyes drift from the treacherous ice to him.

She wants to speak to him. She _has_ to speak to him. Their last conversation had ended so badly and the Saxons are close, too close. What if the Saxons did catch up to them? What if she or Tristan… She couldn't die or let him die without him knowing that despite his words or her pain, she does not and could never hate him.

Though he is several people away from her, she is troubled enough that she gazes at him with a steadfastness that _should_ be directed at the ice, where his eyes are focused.

As a result of this uncharacteristic inattention, she is more than slightly startled when the ice begins to crack. Cursing softly, she immediately tries to calm her horse to prevent it from bucking and further upsetting the delicate balance of weight.

"Shhh. Mairete, it will be alright. Shh."

The horse settles without much more protest and only whinnies, nervously eyeing the ever-growing cracks in the ice. Once she has calmed her, she immediately scans the group to assure herself that everyone is still safe.

In doing so, she sees Fulciana and Flanna, Alecto between them, supporting them both. She sees Dagonet and Bors glance nervously between each other and the ice. She sees many faces of the villagers, almost all looking afraid. Lastly, she sees Arthur give the signal to stop, which instantaneously causes all movement to cease, all noise to desist save for the creaking of the ice and a noise that freezes everyone to the marrow. Out of the initial, terrible silence is born the steady beat of Saxon drum.

Urged forward by the death knell, all begin to walk once more, only to be greeted by more groaning ice, causing them to pause again.

Glancing to her right at Dagonet, she sees that the tall knight has a grim, almost imperceptible upturn to his mouth, almost as if he is darkly amused and at last ready to submit to whatever Fate may hold in store.

"Knights… ?" prompts Arthur, looking around to them for input.

Arthur refuses to decide this for them when so much has already been decided despite their wishes. Indeed, Tristan and other knights had told him this would happen if they went on this mission, if they stayed to wall up the insane priests, if they brought the villagers along with them. Rome and he had already decided so much for them, and now he will let them choose. There is a slight chance that, even over the ice, they can outrun the Saxons, make it across and then double speed, but the chance is infinitesimal. He will, however, attempt it all the same if that is what they choose.

"Well, I'm tired of runnin'," Bors states, "and these Saxons are so close behind, my arse is hurting."

Iseult watches as Arthur turns to Tristan next. For the briefest moment, the brown-eyed man meets Iseult's gaze. His eyes, the one chip in his mask, look resigned and yet defiant, and she knows the gist of his answer before he even looks to Arthur. "Never liked looking over my shoulder anyway."

She almost wants to laugh at the statement. When she had known him from childhood in their village, there were very few times anyone had ever _purposely_ chased Tristan. Very few people had ever been foolish enough to even _consider_ it. Iseult cannot help but find herself think that, truly, the Saxons are either mad or unaware of whom they pursue.

"Here. Now," Dagonet answers firmly, pulling her from her thoughts.

Arthur briefly looks to Lancelot and then to Iseult who nods once. "It is time to face them."

With a nod, Arthur turns. "Jols!"

The man called instantly begins the preparations for the approaching fight.

As this begins, Iseult knows she must speak now or risk speaking never. None too carefully, as she disregards the ice, she walks toward Tristan. Again, she knows that—within the first few steps—he sees her approaching him. His awareness is told in the slight tensing of his jaw, neck, and shoulders, the way he busies himself with inspecting arrows that he knows are perfectly ready. Despite this rather off-putting reaction, however, she will not allow him to discourage her. She must talk with him and he must listen to what she has to say.

Stopping nearly three feet from him, she speaks his name.

"Tristan."

He ignores her in favor of continuing his needless review. He does not give the slightest indication he has heard her, but, unlike her, he is never so lost in thought as to not observe his surroundings.

Frowning, she takes another two steps forward, now no more than a foot from him.

"_Tristan_," she repeats, this time more assertively.

After a moment of hesitation, he looks up from his arrows.

His eyes almost pierce her very soul. Held in them is some very strong fire that seems to sear her skin, turning it aflame even in the cold.

It may be fear or even anger for all she can decipher, but she does know that it is one of the most open and honest expressions she has ever seen in his eyes. As a result, the intensity of the sudden contact causes her to do nothing but stare at him, trying to name what she sees.

"Iseult," he says at last, pulling her from her trance. Shaking her head in an attempt to clear it, she continues.

"Tristan, before this all goes to hell, I have to tell you something."

"You should be preparing," he replies flatly, returning his attention to his quiver of arrows.

"This _is_ preparing," she retorts quickly, forcing her voice to remain as calm and passive as his voice. "I don't know whether or not you have thought about it or if you even care, but I have to tell you something. It's about earlier, at the monster's estate, when we… talked…" The warrior woman notices the slight flinch that anyone else, besides maybe Dagonet, would have assigned to a shift in the lighting. "Just because I disagree with your words does not mean that I do not wish to speak to you anymore." He pauses his inspection, hand hovering over the next arrow, unmoving and unwilling to meet her gaze. Knowing that he is most certainly still listening, though, she continues. "And just because what you said hurt… that does not mean that I hate you or am disappointed or anything else. I—"

"Iseult," Jols' voice calls form slightly behind her.

She turns and sees the man just as he reaches her.

"Yes?"

"Your equipment is ready beside Dagonet."

She nods. "Very well. Thank you." Returning her attention to Tristan again, she sighs. He is staring at her expectantly, perplexed and waiting for her to clarify whatever she is talking about by finishing her words, but suddenly, she's not sure if she can continue what she wants to say. Not right now anyway. Not before what is soon to ensue.

No. She can tell him later that she could never hate him. That she could never so much as even be cross with him for any great span of time. That regardless of how he has treated her until this point, she still wants to renew their friendship, try to pick up the pieces from where they had shattered so many years ago.

"I… Just… Survive this and I'll continue what I was saying once we return to the wall," she blurts out before turning on her heel and retreating to her weaponry.

He watches as she walks away from him, and he would readily admit that he is almost entirely bewildered. Maybe it is the fatigue that is making him have difficulties in understanding and processing; maybe it is just that her words were unexpected. Maybe it is even a combination of the two circumstances, but regardless, he is indeed confused.

When she had first approached, he had hoped—had prayed to whatever was out there—that she was only walking past him. After the conversation that had happened at Marius' estate, after seeing _that look_ in her eyes, he did not want to talk to her. Surely he had already disappointed her enough for the present.

Besides, he did not wish to talk to her, to see that look again, before dying, as he is certain this confrontation will be the last. It is his fault, after all, that she is here. Had he but died sooner, she would not be on this suicide mission. She would be in Sarmatia once more or, at the least, back at the Wall.

If nothing else, it is his fault she is here because he did not try hard enough to keep her at the Wall. Secretly—kept even from himself—he had wanted her to come along. He had _wanted_ his childhood friend there. It was selfish and self-serving, but if he could choose, he would want her near him when he fell, a last reminder of the home he had been forced to leave behind him. From that, even without his recognition, he had not tried as hard to talk her down, had not fought her quite as well as he could have. He realized in that moment that he had _allowed_ her to accompany them, and in realizing this, he hated himself.

He had killed her.

These blames he places upon himself may or may not be accurate, but facing death, he needs something, someone to blame for her presence and he finds himself as fine a target as any.

Even as he berated himself, though, he realized that she had not passed him, but had instead stopped near him.

When she had first spoken his name, he ignored her, hoped she would leave him, yet she did not. She had simply repeated his name in such a way as told that she certainly would not just leave, and so he slowly had looked up and met her gaze. In doing so, however, he knew he had betrayed himself to her at last. Meeting her eyes, his thoughts were not under lock and key as they should have been. So distracted was he that he must not have hidden his thoughts of self-hatred and remorse. She had always told him his eyes were too honest for him, and he knew she could read them better than anyone.

How much she had seen in them, he could not guess, but it was enough to leave her speechless and staring at him in an odd mix of surprise and, if he read her correctly, _concern_. They had stood there simply staring at one another until he had prompted her to speak again wherein she admitted he had hurt her, badly perhaps—though she would never say that to him—yet she said she does not hate him? She is not angry with him? How? Why? And what had she almost said before Jols interrupted?

Then she tells him, in essence, not to die so that they may speak after the encounter? Speak of what? Why must she be so cryptic and confusing? Could she not simply come out and say what she had been about to say and _then_ walk to her weapons?

_Women_.

Sighing and shaking his head, he brings his thoughts back to what is soon to happen. For now, he must focus on surviving and making sure all of the others do as well.

This thought in mind, he readies arrow to bow and waits.

They stand for what seems an eternity, facing toward the direction of the steady drumbeat. The caravan had finally disappeared from their sight and they remain, standing in a straight line, hearing the ever-increasing volume of the drums. They wait, watching the narrow strip of ice where they know the Saxons must enter.

The first line of Saxons appears and begins to spread out into ranks.

Iseult, standing ready with bow and arrow primed, watches them with no small amount of dread. They spread over the ice like a plague, bringing death to all they touch.

"Hold until I give the command," says Arthur in a clear, measured voice.

Glancing down the line past Gawain and Galahad, past Arthur and Guinevere, past Lancelot, Iseult sees Tristan. His focus is entirely on the enemy and she prays that it remains there.

Again turning, she looks up to Dagonet's face. He wearing an odd expression, as though somehow he knows something that no one else does, and it worries her.

'_… always thought of his brothers first—"_

She shakes her head, cutting off the voice. That cannot begin again now. Let her madness besiege her at some later time; for now, she must focus.

Looking up to Dagonet again, she feels oddly uneasy, almost as if her very soul is fluttering in dread, in sorrow. It does not make sense to her. She has fought many times, many times thinking that meeting Death would be a certainty, but this is somehow different… Something is bothering her and she cannot place it.

Perhaps feeling her gaze, the towering knight turns and looks down to her. Meeting her gaze, the look in her eyes unnerves him. Why does she stare at him in such a manner? In an attempt to push the matter away, he attributes it to fear of the oncoming battle—though if he was to think further on it, he would know that his answer does not make sense—and gives her a grim, closed lip smile.

Hesitantly, she responds in kind, adding a slight nod before quickly turning forward once more. Dagonet is puzzled, yet returns his own attention to the Saxon threat.

Not a moment later, a Saxon archer releases an arrow from his bow and they all watch it ascend, only to fall halfway to the knights' position and skitters harmlessly across the ice. They see the Saxon leader, a bald man with bulky armor, as he turns angrily to the archer.

"I believe they're waiting for an invitation," Arthur comments idly, and Iseult can almost hear a darkly amused note in his voice. "Bors. Tristan."

Even as the two named ready arrow—or in Tristan's case _arrows_—to bow, Guinevere interjects. "They're far out of range."

Iseult cannot restrain a smirk as she once more glances down the line toward Tristan, who she sees has nocked more than one arrow. Obviously the girl does not know of what she speaks.

The arrows are loosed, arcing perfectly into the gray sky and descending upon their hapless victims with lethal accuracy. Four Saxons fall.

Before the achievement can be celebrated, however, the Saxon ranks advance.

Arthur's voice reaches their ears again. "Aim for the wings. Make them cluster."

Now it is time for everyone to contribute. All those in the single line prepare their bows and draw back their strings. A breath later and more Saxons fall to the ice. The action is repeated again and again. Each time, the oncoming force bunches together just a little more, wanting to get as far away from either end as possible, and with the redistribution of weight, the ice begins to creak and groan and crack.

For those few moments, it seems as though the Saxons might be their own undoing, but then the Saxon leader forces them back into their lines.

"It's not going to break. Back," orders Arthur, drawing his sword. "Fall back. Prepare for combat!"

Abandoning whatever spare weapons lie in front of them, they back up and ready their main weapons.

Iseult throws her bow back into the snow behind her and unsheathes her sword, eyes focusing on the Saxons. Out of her peripheral vision, however, she sees movement to her left. Glancing at Dagonet from the corner of her eye, she watches as his jaw sets and an expression comes over his face that only worsens the feeling she had experienced earlier.

Even as she discreetly stares, she can almost see something finally break within the man and he drops his sword, scoops up his axe, and runs toward the Saxon line with a great bellow.

"Dag!" exclaims Bors.

"Cover him!" Arthur shouts.

'_—that's how he died, you know. He saved us—'_

In the blink of an eye, Iseult tosses her own sword and rushes after him, not even slowing as she bends to lift her shield from where it had been left with her spare weapons. Eyes on Dagonet as he swings his axe down onto the ice, she runs as fast as she can, ignoring the loud creaking under her feet.

"Iseult!" yells Gawain, voice between shock and panic.

Hidden in Gawain's yell, she almost swears she hears _his_ voice also, but she cannot turn to look. She must keep running. She must help Dagonet. She must help the man who has already become more family to her than she has ever had before in her life.

The first arrow to hit him embeds itself in his leg just before she reaches him.

Heart racing, chest heaving, she throws her shield-covered arm in front of him just as another arrow would have pierced his chest.

He gives her the briefest glance before swinging again, and she focuses on shielding the two of them as best she can from the arrows.

One arrow grazes Dagonet's arm, another skims the side of her right leg. She knows she can only keep this up for so long, but the ice is beginning to fracture and the fractures are quickly branching farther across the ice.

She talks urgently to him, speaking encouraging words that she knows she will never remember later—if there is a later—and keeps an eye on the enemy, moving or shifting the shield as necessary.

Just as she begins to feel hopeful, though, she at last misjudges. Leaning slightly more in front of Dagonet, her back slightly to the enemy, and arrow pierces her left shoulder, causing her to cry out in pain. The sound distracts Dagonet who—healer that he is—quickly looks to her. In that moment, from shock, her arm falls just barely and another arrow plunges into Dagonet's abdomen. The bolt of pain that strikes him is enough that he drops to his knees and must lift himself to his feet again even as Iseult raises her shield, ignoring the excruciating pain in her shoulder.

"Once more, Dagonet!" she exclaims, noticing how close the ice is to breaking.

He gives her a determined nod, too winded, pained, and exhausted to verbally reply. Mustering his strength, he swings one last time with a mighty yell and the ice gives way. At last entirely drained of his strength and energy, he begins to tip forward, axe falling to the ice. Iseult, seeing this, throws herself forward, her good shoulder hitting his chest, thereby counterbalancing the motion.

Dropping her shield, she instead braces him, draping one of the giant knight's arms across her shoulders and begins back to their line. Hearing the ice cracking, she hurries as much as she can, at times Dagonet able to stumble alongside her and take some of the weight off, at times she quite nearly has to drag him. With every breath that she must support his weight, the pain in her leg and shoulder intensifies, yet through her pain, she talks to him almost frantically, trying to keep him conscious and focused.

At almost half of the way to their own line, some of the weight is suddenly lifted from her aching shoulders. Looking up from the ice and over Dagonet who is nearly doubled over in pain, she meets Arthur's determined gaze.

"Iseult, I can take him," says a voice to her left. Seeing Bors ready to take the weight from her, she allows him to do so, knowing that he and Arthur will be able to get Dag to solid ground more quickly than she. Following just slightly behind them, she occasionally glances over her shoulder at the ice as it breaks and capsizes, plunging those standing on the chunks into frozen water even as the knights remaining on the land continue to shower them with arrows.

Reaching safety on land, the broken ice at last leaving an insurmountable line of defense between the Saxons and themselves, Bors and Arthur help Dagonet to sit down and begin to examine the damage. Dagonet, somewhere between being conscious and not, is muttering almost incoherently, only a few words distinguishable.

"Horse? What about 'is horse?" questions Bors, looking around at the others present and hoping for an answer. "Why is 'e concerned with his horse right now?"

After a moment, Iseult remembers back to the first day of their mission and she walks wordlessly to Dagonet's horse. One-handedly, she lifts a bag from the creature's back. Returning, she glances at Tristan and quickly wishes she hadn't. He looks furious.

Stopping in front of Bors, Dagonet, Arthur, she sets the leather bag down and kneels with some difficulty, her grazed knee protesting the motion.

Her left arm kept purposely limp and loose at her side—further tightening her muscles with the arrow's shaft still present would not only worsen the pain but also possibly worsen the damage—she opens the pack with her right hand. Carefully removing a clean cloth and the same bottle Dagonet had used to clean her wounds, she looks to Bors.

"We need to remove the arrows, clean and bandage as best we can here, and then get him back to the caravan."

"Right 'ere?"

"The sooner it is done, the less chance there is for infection."

Bors looks to Arthur who seems uncertain, overwhelmed. Iseult does not know for how long they might have simply stared at one another, indecisive, had the one concerned not spoken.

" 's right. Hav' to," Dagonet croaks, voice strained. He reaches up and, fumbling a little, loosens his shirt enough for someone to be able to work.

Arthur nods to Bors who is still staring at him for answer and Bors immediately thereafter looks to Dagonet.

"Alright, Dag… I'm goin'ta get the arrow out then…"

The other knight nods, bracing for the action. Without being told, Iseult stands and moves back from them.

She watches as Arthur holds the feathered end of the arrow and Bors grips the other end closest to Dagonet's back with one hand, the other hand at the arrowhead. In the blink of an eye, without warning, Bors snaps the arrowhead off and Arthur carefully, but promptly, pulls out the remainder of the arrow. The knight almost screams but restrains the sound and instead merely grits his teeth and holds his breath a moment before they move to the next arrow in his leg.

Iseult is so distracted watching that she almost jumps when a calloused hand grips her right hand and lifts it to her left shoulder where an arrow is currently lodged.

"Hold," the familiar voice instructs quietly right by her ear.

She immediately grips the arrow as he tells her and she feels his hand on her back near the base of the arrow, holding it steady. A moment later, she hears a snap and then he is standing in front of her.

"Move your hand."

His voice seems distant, maybe even a little cold.

Again, she does so and he places on hand on her shoulder, holding it firmly in place as he grips the arrow, quickly glances at her, and then pulls out the arrow, perhaps even more skillfully than Arthur had done for Dagonet. Nonetheless, the sudden flare of pain is agonizing enough that her knees give out on her and for the briefest instant she loses consciousness.

The next thing she is aware of, her forehead is resting on Tristan's shoulder and he is supporting her. Returning to herself and finding her strength again, she stands and he releases her. Yet, there is a slight hesitancy in his doing so that goes unnoticed by all, including Iseult.

She will not catch him this time, however. Returning his eyes to forced indifference—his only defense to what he had almost watched happen—he levels his stare at her.

"Another two fingers' breadth to your right and you would have died. That was a careless mistake."

Thus spoken, he walks to his horse and mounts before looking toward the group—pointedly keeping his eyes away from _her_—and addressing his comrades.

"I will ride ahead and inform one of the wagons to hold until you arrive," Tristan says, looking to Arthur for approval.

Arthur nods once. "Tell them to ready everything necessary."

With nary a word, Tristan turns his horse and then urges it forward, quickly riding away from them. He cannot but notice as he does so that, for some unknown reason, his eyes are stinging.


	14. Onward

**Chapter Thirteen: Onward**

After Tristan disappears from view, Iseult cleans and bandages her wounds, using the appropriate herbs to staunch the blood flow at her shoulder. Then, walking to Dagonet, she briefly does the same, stopping the blood flow as best she can under the circumstances, and then she makes temporary bandages for his wounds.

"You know… about healing… too," Dagonet says, fighting back the waves of pain and ever-looming unconsciousness that assail him.

"Not nearly so much as you, I can promise you that. But I know enough to survive," she replies giving him a small, tired smile.

As she bandages his torso, she notices so many of the scars on his skin. She wonders what the story of each is, for, woven together, they surely would tell the story of his service to Rome. And this will be yet another scar to mar his skin, telling a story of a courageous action that almost—and might still—cost him his life.

She tries to appear casual as she bandages him because she highly suspects the man is self-conscious about his many reminders of battles past. She has a feeling from the way he shifts a little nervously each time her fingers graze one of the scars that—had he not been in such dire straits and everyone else not been busy gathering what weapons they can—he likely would not have consented to her being the one to bandage him.

Almost immediately upon her securing the last bandage, Arthur and Bors help Dagonet to stand and limp toward where the two knights' horses stand side by side. Arthur had decided that Dagonet would ride his horse beside Bors to reduce the risk of him falling off his horse.

Something _else_ has been decided by Arthur, but as Gawain watches Iseult struggle to stand with her injured knee, too proud and stubborn to ask for help, he loathes having been selected to inform her…

"Iseult," he says upon reaching the now standing woman.

"Yes?"

"We… I… Arthur wants you to ride behind me on my horse…" he answers at last. "He is worried about your wound making you dizzy or something…"

One already naturally arched eyebrow arches just slightly higher, and so he begins quickly again.

"Iseult, no one is judging you, and we know that you wish to ride alone, but please do this. It is merely a precaution…"

Gawain, for an instant, can almost see a spark of defiance—and indignation—in her dark eyes, but just as quickly, it vanishes.

"Very well," she concedes with a sigh.

Gawain smiles in relief. "Thank you, Iseult. That will make everyone much happier."

The golden-haired knight holds his arm out to Iseult who hesitantly takes it and allows him to lead her to his horse. He climbs on first and then helps her up to sit behind him.

Only moments later, they depart, riding to wherever Tristan had caught up with the caravan.

"You know, Gawain," Iseult sighs thoughtfully, "if this continues to happen, us riding together, I may have to demand marriage."

The knight in front of her only chuckles before glancing over his shoulder at her and dropping his voice. "Though I cannot say I would argue too much, I think we both know you would not."

Slightly startled by his sudden seriousness, she frowns. "What do you mean by that?"

"I _mean_," he begins, voice still low, "that your heart already belongs to someone, does it not?"

His observation is met by silence and he sighs. "Perhaps not everyone may notice, but I do. Since we met, you have looked at him in such a way, spoken of him in such a manner, that I had suspected almost immediately… After our last conversation, though, when you were so conflicted, I knew it. Will you deny it? Perhaps a better question, _can_ you deny it?"

Again, there is silence until it is broken by a quiet, "No."

"I thought not. You should tell him."

"He is angry with me."

Gawain lightly shakes his head. "I highly doubt that, Iseult."

"He is," she insists stubbornly and he can feel her muscles tensing, particularly in her good arm wrapped around his torso to steady herself. "He _is _angry with me."

"Iseult," Bors interjects from beside them, having heard only her statement. "If y' mean who I fink, ya wrong."

"What is she wrong about?" questions a curious Lancelot. From slightly in front of Bors, he slows his horse to be beside him instead.

Gawain turns to Lancelot. "Iseult thinks Tristan is angry with her."

"Not even close," snorts the dark-haired knight. "Although, when you ran out onto the ice after Dagonet as you did, he briefly appeared as though he might kill you before any Saxon had a chance to do so."

"How is that not angry?" she exclaims in exasperation.

"Because _that_, my dear lady," smirks Lancelot, "is the closest to panic our scout has ever come."

"What?"

Gawain nods. "He was clearly concerned for you."

"Don't think I've ever seen 'im shoot arrows so fast before and, for Tris, that's saying somefing," Bors chuckles.

Iseult is silent again, rethinking the past several hours.

"You should speak to him, Iseult," Gawain gently urges. "I think you will discover that what we are telling you is correct."

When Iseult remains silent, nothing more is said of the matter. The three knights leave her to think uninterrupted, but they hope that what they think they have seen, what they have told her, is indeed true.

It is not much longer before wagon and scout are in sight and as soon as they reach them, Gawain and Bors get Dagonet inside the wagon.

Iseult, after dismounting from Gawain's horse, turns and inadvertently makes eye contact with Tristan. Searching his face, his eyes, she tries to see what the three knights seem to see but she cannot. She opens her mouth to speak and he watches her, waiting. Instead, she loses her nerve and closes her mouth again, quickly brushing past Gawain and Bors and stepping up into the wagon.

"I will take care of Dagonet," she informs them before walking a little further inside and sitting beside her patient.

Bors and Gawain briefly exchange looks, glancing from where Iseult sits in the wagon to Tristan and shaking their heads. The two knights remount their horses and signal to Arthur that everyone is ready. Arthur nods and they all begin forward once more.

Inside the now moving wagon, Iseult tends to Dagonet's wounds more diligently, thoroughly cleaning them, again applying the appropriate herbs, and re-bandaging them. In the midst of her work, she can feel that he is slightly feverish and is wavering between being conscious and not. Frowning, she admits that, though he survived the initial injuries, he is not yet assured life. Death still lingers, just as it lingered in the dungeon, and it is nearly palpable. Her only consolation is that she will do her best and that she knows Dagonet will fight.

"Iseult," Dagonet says, voice weak as he lies on the wool blanket stretched out over the rough timbers of the wagon floor.

"Yes?"

"I… I was prepared to meet Death… I was… Somehow… I knew—"

"Dagonet, don't—"

"I knew I would die… felt it would happen…" he continues locking eyes with her in a moment of clearness. "If you were not… with us… I know… I _know _I would have died… I do not know _how_ I know… But I do."

"Dagonet I…." Her thoughts are whirling about in her mind. She too had known he would die, but how? _How_? " I could not let you die… I have not known you for as much time as the others have known you, not long at all in truth, but already, you are like family to me… I could not _let_ you die."

"You knew too… Didn't you?" he questions, eyes looking so sure, as if he can see the answer though she dares not speak it.

"I… I don't know… I…" she trails off, unable to form thoughts into an answer. Giving up on the endeavor entirely, she instead pulls a weary but warm smile onto her face. "I… I think your fever is putting odd notions into your skull."

Still unconvinced but not wanting to push her, he nods. "That may be so. Regardless… All I can say is thank you."

The gratefulness, the warmth and sincerity in his eyes as well as in his voice is so clear that Iseult feels her eyes begin to sting and mist over with tears. She quickly blinks, trying to pull them back, and succeeds for all but a single tear.

"I…You… You should rest," she murmurs at last, in a voice with just the slightest tremor to it as she leans back against the wall of the wagon.

The knight only smiles kindly at her and nods. "I will… try, but I make no promises…"

Slowly, Iseult does something he does not expect. She begins to sing. Softly, gently, she sings, a lullaby he had often heard as a child, but she sings it in the dialect of her and Tristan's people. It is obvious that she has not sung in quite some time; her voice is rough and occasionally cracks or stops entirely, but she continues anyway, and Dagonet quietly listens. He does not want to do or say anything that might cause her to stop, and before much time has passed, he drifts into a peaceful slumber, the melody putting him at ease.

Yet, just outside the wall of the wagon on which Iseult leans, there is another who silently listens to her song and briefly closes his eyes to remember times past—nights up in a tree with someone leaning against him—before he moves onward again.

Tristan continues to lead the group and scout ahead until they at last reach the wall and within, the town.

Entering the town is a flurry of sound and motion. Iseult does not know exactly what is happening outside the walls of the wagon, but she does fear that the jarring might aggravate Dagonet's injuries. The knight had woken almost as soon as they had entered the gates of the wall. He now sits, carefully reclining on blankets and pillows. She can tell that he is listening to the cacophony outside just as she is.

He seems much more aware than he had been the past day or two, but he's still slightly feverish. There is the ever-present chance that all could turn for the worst. She had been diligently cleaning and re-bandaging his wounds when she felt it necessary and thus far there had been no true signs of infection, but anyone with any shred of medical knowledge knows that what is visible is not the only worry…

A few moments of bumping over the ill-paved roads and the wagon stops. Iseult listens closely and can hear metal gates close. As soon as the commotion dies down, Dagonet lifts himself into sitting up completely, without the pillows to support him, and the exertion leaves him winded. Pausing only long enough to recover his breath, he makes to rise, but Iseult's hands catch his shoulders and stop him.

"What do you think you are doing?" she questions, eyebrow raised.

"My papers… My papers of freedom," he replies, looking at her earnestly. "Germanus, the bishop, said he would give them to us upon our return. If I do not stand with the other—"

"His Holiness can bring the papers to you," Iseult sneers in disgust at the thought of the bisho. She had already heard quite a bit of him from Gawain and Dagonet during their journey to the Roman monster's estate. Seeing Dagonet's surprised face, she realizes that he must have thought her ire to be directed at him so she forces herself to relax and softens her voice as well as her facial expression. "Dagonet… Just… Stay in the wagon until Bors and I come to help you. Please?"

The knight sighs in defeat and nods lying back on the pillows once more.

Iseult gives him a grateful and reassuring smile before she steps out of the wagon. Nodding to Dagonet, she disappears from his view, around the wagon, and sees the knights already standing in line. As the bishop distributes papers, Iseult comes to stand slightly behind Gawain and Tristan, watching.

Upon the bishop giving out a paper to each of the knights present, he realizes he still holds one more paper.

"One of you is missing. Where is he?" he asks, smiling forcibly. To Iseult, the man just seems so superior in attitude, so haughty, as if he believes this all to be beneath his great position as bishop.

" 'e's in that wagons," Bors responds, pointing to the wagon where Iseult had left Dagonet only moments ago. The strong knight looks angry, but as he speaks next, Iseult almost swears she can hear his voice shake, whether in sadness or fear or fury she cannot guess. " 'e's in there fightin' for 'is life."

The bishop merely nods and uncomfortably smiles. "Ah. Well it can wait then."

Iseult's bloodstained hands clench into fists at her sides as she glowers darkly at the bishop. How _dare_ he wave something so important off as though it is nothing. Glancing quickly around, she sees that all of the knights look as though they wish to speak, but she knows—as well as they likely do—that for now they cannot.

"No. It can be done now," she adamantly states, startling those around her. They clearly had not expected her to speak. Obviously, they do not know her all that well. "You've neglected the knights' freedom long enough. Do not think that you can delay Dagonet's now."

She sees Gawain give her a nervous look, sees Lancelot and Galahad look at her and shake their heads in warning, but she will not back down from this. It is much too important. The knights should not defy the bishop, certainly not while still holding their papers in their hands, but she has had no duty to Rome and has no papers.

The bishop's smile becomes even more forced. "And who is this… _lovely_ young woman?" he questions, glancing between her and Arthur.

"She is a visitor from my knights' homeland," Arthur quickly answers, eyes fixed on Iseult, begging her to leave it alone for the present. What does it matter if Dagonet receives his papers slightly belated? He will still receive them.

"How… _charming_," the bishop responds, giving Iseult a thinly veiled look of disgust before smiling again. "But, I do not believe that I have the time right now to _deliver_ the papers. Perhaps later—"

"No. **_Now_**. I spent my entire journey back to the Wall trying to save Dagonet and there is still no guarantee that he will survive. He was shot twice by crossbow, once in the leg, another in the stomach," she glares, stepping forward past Tristan and Gawain but not before catching Bors nod to her, approval in his eyes. Holding her red-splotched hands up to the bishop's eye level, she watches as he flinches back at the sight and she continues.

"This blood on my hands, this is not enemy blood; it is the blood of the brave knight who lies in that wagon. This is blood shed because of a broken promise of Rome. That knight may not survive until it is _convenient_ for you to give him his papers. If he dies, he should die knowing he is a free man, so you can march your pompous arse over to that wagon that he is in and give him his papers."

The bishop, wide-eyed and openly disgusted exclaims, "You dare to speak to me in such a manner as this, heathen?"

"I speak to men in whatever tone I deem them worthy of."

"Enough of your disrespect, wench," shouts one of the bishop's guards, stepping forward and slapping her across the face.

Even as Iseult catches her balance from the unexpected action, several things simultaneously happen.

A dangerous, enraged snarl tears from someone's throat and a hand yanks Iseult back behind Tristan and Gawain by her left arm, causing searing pain to assault her, momentarily leaving her seeing nothing but spots.

Upon recovering, however, Iseult sees Tristan's hand on her arm and his other hand hovering above his knife in warning.

Glancing around his shoulder, she sees his face is only slightly from its usual blankness but his eyes… His eyes look quite near murderous. Then… does that mean it was Tristan who had snarled like that? No other standing around seems likely, but… Why? Could the other knights have been correct after all about how Tristan feels?

"Oi. Wouldn't do that again if I was you. Tris is rather protective of the friends 'e has and we protect our own," rumbles Bors, his own hands resting on his visible weapons. Glancing around, Iseult sees that Galahad already has one guard at sword point. From the look on the guard's face and where the guard's hand had been in the process of drawing his sword, she can only assume Galahad stopped him from doing something the guard would regret. Even Lancelot and Gawain look as though they are ready to fight if it is necessary.

The bishop and his guards anxiously glance at the knights and to Arthur who, making no move to stop them, instead looks just as angry and indignant as his knights.

After a moment of tense silence, the bishop nervously laughs.

"Ah-ha… Friends. There is no need for there to be a problem," he states, voice shaking ever-so-slightly as sweat shines on his bald scalp. "Perhaps I can deliver this to him, after all, yes?"

He and his guards immediately and with a great show of feigned dignity flee the knights and, after an indecipherable glance at Iseult, Arthur follows them, fury in his steps.

Iseult watches as they leave and briefly smiles. Dagonet will receive his freedom, now if only he can retain his life…

The hand that still remains on her arm tightens and suddenly she is being pulled away from where the knights stand and toward the side of the courtyard next to a wall. Again, her vision swims, pain erupting from her wounded shoulder. She wonders somewhere through the pain if her stitches have torn.

Suddenly, the motion stops and, once her vision clears, she realizes Tristan is now facing her.

"What did you think you were doing?" he hisses, scowling.

After regaining her composure and making sure she is not bleeding again, she focuses on him, ignoring the pain.

"He was going to wait until later. Tristan, Dagonet is still not assured of a later. He may have survived until this point, but you know as well as I that infection can still set in…" she answers, her voice at last wavering. The thought of the knight dying who had been so kind to her since her arrival… that thought saddens her in ways being orphaned never had.

She can almost see the effect of her words on him as his shoulders fall almost imperceptibly, as his eyes flick toward the wagon, but he recovers himself so quickly that she wonders if she had actually seen it at all.

"You should not have done that. He could have ordered you killed and then not I or Arthur or anyone else could save you."

"You think I do not know that?" retorts Iseult.

He squints, as if examining her, trying to understand, but he does not lose the edge to his voice. "Then _why_?"

"Because no one else _could _have said anything."

The other knights, now grouped together, watch the arguing pair.

"Do you think we should go help her…?" Galahad hesitantly suggests, glancing between the three remaining knights and then to Tristan and Iseult.

At this, Lancelot only smirks. "No. She can hold her own against our scout."

"She's every bit as much a fighter as my 'nora. She'll be fine," chuckles Bors before sobering. "I'm gonna go check on Dag, make sure the bloody Roman kept 'is word."

Nodding, Bors walks away from them and quickly disappears around the back of the wagon.

A moment of silence passes as the knights simply stand together and then Galahad speaks again.

"Are you _sure_ she'll be alright?

"She'd be better if she would learn to ignore Tristan's _words_ and listen to what he is _saying_," comments Lancelot, frowning as he sees the argument seem to escalate.

How can she not know that Tristan is only worried? That he has tried from the start to distance himself from her out of fear? Lancelot had understood almost immediately why the scout had acted as he had towards Iseult. As one who has long practiced and perfected the art of keeping people—particularly women—far from his heart, he knew exactly what Tristan had been doing.

And he knew exactly when it stopped being as effective.

He had seen Iseult and Tristan talk at Marius' estate. Though he does not know what had been discussed, he had watched as she walked away from Tristan and had seen that something within the scout had at last begun to crack. From that moment forward, Lancelot _knew_ that the scout's calm but forced indifference was more difficult, and sometimes impossible, to maintain. He had witnessed this most clearly on the ice. He was standing beside Tristan when they had both seen Iseult run across the ice, and Lancelot had seen the panicked expression on Tristan's face, had heard the fear in his voice as he yelled for her.

Yes, he knows the scout's game perhaps even better than the scout.

"What do you mean 'ignore his words and listen to what he's saying'?" questions Galahad, brow furrowing in confusion. "Isn't that the same thing?"

Lancelot merely sighs and rolls his eyes in exasperation, leaving Gawain and Galahad in order to search for Arthur.

Unanswered, Galahad turns to Gawain. "Well, isn't it?"

Gawain, chuckling heartily, shakes his head. He is obviously amused, though by what Galahad cannot surmise.

"She'll been fine, Galahad. Now mind your business and stay out of theirs," Gawain chides before clapping him on the back. "Come along. I need a drink now as a free man."

Galahad turns to follow Gawain to the tavern where drink and food await, but not before casting a final look toward Tristan and Iseult.

Oblivious to the other knights' departures, the two have continued to bicker until at last, Iseult has had enough. Fatigued and sore, she has had _enough_.

"Tristan. I will not apologize for what I did, neither will I argue with you any longer about this!" she exclaims. "I do not regret what I did. Stare me down if you wish, be angry with me, I do not care. I did what I did for a reason. Now if you'll excuse me—for that matter even if you won't—I need to help Bors get Dagonet to the infirmary."

With that, Iseult breezes past Tristan, leaving the scout to stare after her.


	15. Lost

**Chapter Fourteen: Lost**

Iseult and Bors help Dagonet from the wagon and support him during their trek to the infirmary. Bors walks on the side where the arrow had struck Dagonet's leg hoping to carry the brunt of the man's weight so that Iseult would not have to do so. She may say that her knee is all right, but Bors knows how stubborn women can be, and she has already proven to be as stubborn as Tristan about injuries so he isn't entirely sure that he can trust her word on the matter.

"Well… Looks like we made it after all, Bors," Dagonet comments as he limps, leaning as little as possible on his two friends and still less on Iseult. He knows that, being of his stature, he is rather heavy and neither of his companions is in the best condition at present.

"Yeah, and you better keep making it, Dag, or I'll kill y' myself," Bors threatens.

The giant chuckles briefly before deciding that, in his current state, even light laughter is painful. How he can laugh at anything with the pain he must be feeling right now is a true testament to the strength of the man.

Iseult, for her part, remains quiet and distracted, her usual observance noticeably absent.

Why, why, _why_ does it seem that every time she and Tristan speak, one of them walks away upset? Have they both truly changed so much? She had not wished to believe it before, but it seems as though she has no proof otherwise.

Without realizing it, Iseult quietly sighs, attracting the attention of both knights.

Dagonet, frowning slightly, speaks. "Iseult, are you alright? I'm not placing… too much weight on you, am I?"

He begins to adjust but she quickly objects, "No, no. Nothing like that. My thoughts are merely elsewhere."

"With a certain scout," Bors tacks on with a wink.

"Must everyone who has noticed this—which seems to be _everyone_—comment and share their knowledge with others? You knights are worse than gossiping old women!" she exclaims, rolling her eyes.

" 'ey. 'ey. I learned from the best and she is _not_ an old woman," argues Bors with a deep rumble of a laugh.

Ignoring Bors, Dagonet looks to Iseult. "What is it now that Tristan… has done?"

"He remains angry with me."

"For what?"

"Apparently, a great multitude of things! I had no idea that I have the capacity to be so aggravating without conscious effort, but apparently I am quite adept at it," she answers with another sigh.

'Two sighs from a woman is never a good sign,' thinks Bors before speaking aloud. "Like what?"

"Anything," the frustrated woman responds immediately and then adds, "_Everything_."

Dagonet raises an eyebrow, the barest traces of amusement playing upon his features. "Is that so?"

"It is. It seems as though no matter what I do, it upsets him."

"What does he usually say?"

" 'You shouldn't have done that', 'that was careless', 'what do you think you are doing', 'you could have died'," Iseult mimics with an accuracy that surprises the two knights. Just as quickly as she had taken on his tone and cadence, she returns to her own voice. "I am only doing what I feel I must and all he does is scold me as though I am a child!"

Dagonet shakes his head at her words, seeing the running theme.

"Iseult," he begins, waiting until she looks up at him to continue, "have you thought that maybe… he reacts in this way when he is worried… because he is Tristan and knows no other way?"

Silence follows the statement for only a moment before she slowly answers, "Lancelot has said something similar…"

"Tris 'as never been good with expressin' 'imself more than what a sharpened knife will allow," Bors states, only partly joking. "Bein' worried? 'e has no idea. Or at least doesn't want people t' know 'e does."

"I still do not understand why we cannot speak without fighting. There are times that I can almost recognize the Tristan I knew and then the next moment, I'm lost again. It is as though I am walking through a forest in a thick fog. For an instant, the fog thins and I see something familiar and think that maybe I know where I am and then, suddenly, the fog thickens again."

"That sounds pretty accurate actually," Dagonet chuckles, again finding the action unpleasant. "Look, Iseult… I don't know… exactly what to tell you. Maybe just… give him time… Maybe his freedom will do him some good."

"Maybe," she mutters, eyes moving to the floor.

The remaining distance to the infirmary is walked in almost complete silence, each caught in their separate thoughts.

Upon reaching their destination, Bors and Iseult help Dagonet to one of the beds where Iseult re-examines his injuries and re-bandages the wound on his torso. Not long after, Dagonet falls asleep once more and Bors and Iseult find seats so that they may stay with him.

It is quite some time following, several hours perhaps, that Iseult looks up to see Arthur appear in the doorway.

"Iseult," he says, inadvertently getting Bors' attention as well, "may I speak to you out here, please?"

Stepping to one side of the door, Arthur moves from view and Iseult glances to Bors who nods reassuringly. "Go on."

She then stands and walks out of the room, turning to look to Arthur.

"Arthur, I am sorry if I embarrassed you, but if you seek an apology for my words, you will not find one. I say only what I mean, and I will not apologize for that."

He stares at her curiously a moment before shaking his head. "No, Iseult. I came to apologize to _you_. I am deeply sorry for the actions of the guard. He should never have laid a finger on you. He was out of line."

"No. It is Rome that is out of line," she says, meeting surprised green eyes. "Arthur, from what I have seen, you are one of the few honorable Romans in existence."

"But that simply cannot be true," he argues, turning away from her.

Iseult sighs, suddenly understanding why Lancelot had spoken to him as he has in the stable before the mission. Arthur actually believes he lives in the best of all possible worlds and cannot reconcile what it truly is to his view of it. He just seems so… _lost_.

"It is not the first time I have been hit by a Roman," she replies at last.

Turning once more to look at her, Arthur frowns. "What do you mean?"

Momentarily closing her eyes, she inhales deeply before looking to Arthur again.

"When the Romans came for Tristan, I was horribly upset. You must understand, Arthur, that Tristan was my only friend in our village, and so I asked to leave as well. The Roman told me 'no' and I asked one more time because I was desperate. He was angered by my impertinence in asking again and he struck me with his whip. The Roman was even more angered when I had the _audacity_ to not cower to him. The Roman pulled back to hit me once more, but Tristan stopped him. This scar here on my forehead," she says, lifting her hair to reveal a scar the length of her longest finger, "is a permanent reminder to me of Rome's intolerance."

The knights' leader stares at her, clearly upset for what had happened.

"Arthur… I have not known you for more than a few days, but your knights trust you and are loyal to you with their very lives. Already, I can see that you are just as loyal to them. You seem, to me, a good man, but Rome's ideals Arthur… They are nothing like your much worthier ones… Rome finds anyone who is not like them to be barbarians, heathens. Rome is greedy and wishes for complete control. If it feels that it must break or enslave the native people to reach its goal, it does so without a moment of remorse. Rome cares nothing of equality except among noble Romans. Rome is not what you think it, Arthur."

Looking down, the green-eyed man remains silent and Iseult tries to smile at him.

"But I did not intend to lecture you. I am sorry."

"Do not be," he replies quickly, meeting her gaze.

A silence follows that is neither oppressive nor awkward, but at last Iseult feels she must speak.

"If there is nothing else you need, I should return to Dagonet."

"How is he?"

"He has not lost his will to live. He is fighting. It is a good sign."

"I am glad to hear it," nods Arthur truly sounding thankful. "I shall allow you to return to him then and I shall depart. Alert me if anything more happens with Dagonet."

"I will."

She watches as Arthur turns and as he walks down the corridor until he turns the corner. She then re-enters the infirmary to find Dagonet awake and looking completely aware.

Almost unconsciously, a bright smile stretches across her face as she reaches him. "Dagonet."

The knight returns the smile. "Iseult."

"How are you feeling?"

"Sore. And hungry."

"Well, only time can help the first," begins Iseult, "but the second can be remedied, yes?"

" 'course!" Bors exclaims. "My 'nora can get ya taken care of, Dag!"

Before the injured man can reply, however, a knock is heard and all of the occupants turn toward the door to see Flanna and Lucan, Flanna's hands on the young boy's shoulders.

The small woman seems a little uncertain to Iseult, as though feels slightly out of place.

" 'allo…" Flanna greets, a sheepish smile coming to her face. "Um… the blond knight, he said we would find ye all here and Lucan really wanted t' see ye… Is it alright if we come in?"

Flanna finishes her question by looking to Dagonet, and Iseult cannot restrain a smile as the giant of a knight seems to brighten up a bit.

"Of course it is," Dagonet answers, breaking into a smile of his own.

At this Flanna leans down to whisper something in Lucan's ear and once she straightens, the boy nods his understanding of whatever she had said. The two then walk over to the bed on which Dagonet sits and Iseult moves out of their way.

As soon as Lucan reaches Dagonet, he very carefully and gently wraps an arm around the knight's upper chest and rests his head on Dagonet's shoulder. The knight looks slightly surprised but then an affectionate smile reaching even his eyes comes to his face, and he brings one arm up to gently hug the child.

"I missed you, too, Lucan," he says, appearing just a little misty-eyed.

Catching Bors' attention, Iseult motions toward the door and they both quietly exit the room. Once sufficiently far enough from the doorway, Bors speaks, a grin on his face.

" 'at's the happiest I've seen Dag. If 'e's takin' that boy in, like I think 'e plans to do, 'at child'll be well taken care of. Never have to worry about people being cruel to 'im again. Anytime Nora 'n' I've needed someone to look after our kids while we go out, Dag's the one we ask to do it. Though… Sometimes, I think the little bastards 'n' 'e conspire against me. They're little angels for 'im and little demons the rest o' the time."

Iseult chuckles softly. "Perhaps they know he is a gentle soul and decide to be nice? They know they are permitted to rough house with you after all."

Bors laughs as well and then shakes his head, a trace of a smile still on his face. "They're a good lot o' bastards. Don't think I coulda done any better 'n' them 'n' 'nora… but don't mention 'at t' her. She'd think I was goin' soft or somefing…"

She only nods and a smile tugs at the corners of her lips.

It is not long before they reach the tavern. Upon entering, Iseult glances over the occupants. From the corner of his eyes, Bors sees that she searches for _someone_, and he would daresay—would nearly lay down money—that she looks for the most enigmatic of his brother knights. He, too, looks over the crowd, hoping for her sake that the scout is present, but he does not see him, only Gawain and Galahad. Iseult seems to notice this at the same time as he, for her shoulders droop.

Lightly patting her shoulder, Bors gives her a smile. "C'mon, Iseult. Le's get Dag some food."

Again she nods and they walk toward the bar.


	16. To Be

**Chapter Fifteen: To Be…**

Bors and Iseult continue to bring Dagonet's meals to his room. Flanna and Lucan sit talking to him, as they have done for the two previous nights. After Dagonet offers his thanks to Iseult and Bors, Iseult—wanting to be alone for a little while—excuses herself.

She is soon outside under a quickly darkening sky and already, there is a slight chill to the air. She pays no mind to it, however, and walks aimlessly, her mind occupied with many different thoughts.

Tomorrow, if Dagonet is well enough to stand it, they will all begin their travel homeward.

Still, she does not consider Sarmatia her home. It is the land of her birth, true enough, but nothing there defines it as her home. No person or thing beckons for her to return. She is perfectly fee to roam without feeling homesick in the least. In fact, she is certain that she could travel perpetually, never to return to Sarmatia and be content, but for one matter.

Tristan.

Iseult knows she does not wish to part from him, but now it has become more complicated. Now she has other people she will miss. Dagonet, Flanna, Gawain, even Bors, Galahad, and Lancelot. She had made more friends in a few days than she could ever have imagined prior to arriving at the Wall, and sometime following tomorrow, she will part from them, maybe forever.

"You shouldn't be out here by yourself, Iseult," says a voice from off to her right somewhere. Hand grasping the hilt of a dagger, she turns only to relax upon seeing the speaker.

"Gawain," she nods, and then notices Galahad standing beside him. "Galahad."

"What are you doing out here?" questions the younger.

"Needed to think," she answers with a shrug.

"Oh…" the young knight replies, seeming as though she hasn't really answered him at all.

Gawain chuckles and then looks to Iseult. "We are walking to the wall to look out once more over this bloody island before we leave it forever. Would you care to join us?"

She hesitates a moment before nodding and taking Gawain's proffered arm. Their walk to the wall consists of silence from Iseult and light conversation between the two knights.

Upon reaching the steps leading to the walkway on the wall parapet they climb them, but upon reaching the top, they are surprised to find Tristan. Hearing them, he turns and for once, they find his face oddly telling. He seems rather grave for someone who has at last been given his freedom.

Without a word or nod to any of them, he turns his gaze back over the hills. Puzzled, the three walk to stand near him and, looking out, stop dead in their tracks.

Iseult breathes in sharply, eyes widening at the sight upon which her eyes fall. Not far from the wall, looking almost like a river of fire and darkness, is the Saxon army camp.

"How… How did this happen?" Galahad questions, eyes huge in disbelief.

"The Romans," Tristan sneers, giving the nearest centurion a blood-chilling look, "were too busy with drinking and preparing for their own departure from here. They thought patrolling the walls too troublesome. Only two guards were up here and when I arrived they were both fast asleep and had been for who knows how long."

Gawain, eyes dangerous, spins around to stare down the guard at whom Tristan had glared. Seeing him in the light of a torch, Gawain is only slightly surprised to discover him to be one of the higher-ranking of the guards.

"And where were you? Were you sleeping or drinking as the Saxon approached our walls? Well?!" the lion-like knight roars. The sheer fury directed at him causes the Roman to flinch slightly, but he does not look from the Saxon line. "Yes, watch them now as you should have been earlier! Right now, with my bare hands, I could—!"

"Gawain," Tristan quietly reprimands. The scout knows that threats will make no difference at this point. This situation is far beyond threats. Now is the time for focus, for decision.

The knight addressed spins around to stare incredulously at Tristan for only a moment before his rage dissipates, morphing into weariness and resignation.

"What do we do?"

"I have already sent one of the Romans to find Lancelot, one to Bors in Dagonet's room, and another to locate Arthur," the pensive scout replies, turning again to stare over the awaiting army. "They should arrive soon.

Just as he speaks, Lancelot appears and rushes to the side of the wall, looking out and then heavily sighing.

"Then it is true… The damned Romans have truly outdone themselves," the curly-haired knight states before leaning forward to rest against the wall and bowing his head for only a moment before looking to Tristan. "The others?"

"I have sent for them already."

Iseult carefully observes Tristan. His face is impassive and his voice is calm, but Iseult recognizes the undercurrent. He worries just as the other knights worry.

A moment later heavy footsteps are heard coming up the stairs and all turn, expecting to see Bors and Arthur. Instead appear Bors and Dagonet.

Seeing the latter, Iseult frowns.

"And why are you out of your room?" she questions, hands coming to rest on her hips. Then, attention shifting from Dagonet to Bors, she scowls. "And why did you let him leave?"

"I tol' 'im to stay!" exclaims Bors, quickly defending himself. " 'e wouldn't lis'en!"

Dagonet only pats her shoulder as he walks by and stares out at the Saxons, Bors joining him. Iseult watches as the two exchange a look.

"C'mon, Dag… Le's siddown…" Bors says at last with a sigh, putting a hand on the taller knight's shoulder. Dagonet nods and the two sit on the inner edge of the wall, backs to the ever-growing group of panicked villagers.

"Iseult, you should sit, too. Rest your knee," Dagonet comments, noticing the way she leans trying to keep her weight from her injured knee.

As he has come to expect of her, she opens her mouth to protest but—for whatever reason—decides against it. Wordlessly, she sits down beside him, Gawain seating himself beside her while Galahad and Lancelot lean against the wall. Tristan merely stands never turning his gaze from the Saxon army.

Tristan had known this would happen. He had known the Saxons would not back down after their defeat on the ice. It had become a matter of honor, of pride. Of course they would follow the knights to the wall. Regardless of Dagonet's condition, tomorrow they _must_ leave or the Saxons will overwhelm the fort with all still inside its walls.

Already, he had fought several Saxons during his scouting on the return journey to the Wall. He found them to be ruthless, merciless killers. They are as Galahad thinks they are.

For all the dark teasing, particularly aimed at Galahad, he has never _enjoyed_ killing, taking lives, especially the lives of people fighting for their land. He enjoys the battles, the rush he feels, the way he effortlessly wields a blade, the challenge, the unknown, but never the actual killing. He had merely accepted long ago that to live in this world, this land as well as his own, one must kill. It is a simple fact.

What he has not told anyone, however, is that the world of which Arthur speaks, a world at peace… He might not mind it so much.

Of course, he would likely miss the clamor of battle, but to not be _forced_ to draw a sword against someone against whom he has no personal quarrel… To be free to simply wander, meeting all sorts of people, and to be able to learn from them instead of dispatch them… Even just to be able to travel and never worry of attack… To not worry about losing a friend to an enemy's blade as he had already lost several…

"Make way. Make way!" shouts someone below, instantly turning his attention to the stairs as Arthur and Guinevere appear. Even with his thoughts preoccupied as they are, he cannot but observe that they each look more than slightly disheveled. The Woad woman's dress strap hangs down her shoulder in a manner that it had not earlier—looking as if put on hastily—and Arthur looks not much better. Briefly, he wonders if he has read the situation correctly before shrugging away the matter. It is not his concern if Arthur chooses to _associate_ himself with a Woad.

Honestly, he cannot find what about her so bewitches his leader. She is a twig and much too delicate-looking for Tristan's liking. Women should not seem so pale and fragile. A woman should be strong and capable with a healthy color from being outside. She should look able to climb trees and ride horses. She should be a warrior yet also a healer, a homemaker. She should be independent and headstrong yet know when to defer to her man, be it lover or husband. By the same token, she should be able to keep her man accountable, able to be a companion, an equal. To be…

Almost unconsciously, his eyes travel from the tragic-seeming Woad girl to a quite different figure. Without his guard up, he looks at her. Currently, she watches Arthur from her seat on the wall, clearly waiting for what the man might say. Her tanned face, he notices, is slightly drawn from exhaustion, worry, and who knows what else. Brown eyes catch the torches' glow and appear to shimmer as shadow and light dance across her face, an oddly mesmerizing sight.

During his forced servitude to Rome, he had not often allowed himself to think of what she might be like, if she had ever been spoken for by some other man. In fact, he had never allowed himself to think upon her for any extended period of time in the last fifteen years. He had also never questioned why none of the women at the fort interested him, but now…

"Knights," Arthur speaks at last and, immediately, Tristan looks to him, forcing all other thoughts from his mind. Before he even continues to speak, Tristan knows what Arthur will next say. It is as plain and unhidden as the Saxon army camping outside of the Wall. "My journey with you must end here… May God go with you."

Tristan watches with the others as Arthur turns and walks down the steps, as Lancelot follows, and then Guinevere; he watches as Lancelot confronts Arthur and then as Arthur walks away from him, from all of them.

Then, weary with watching, Tristan simply leaves the parapet without so much as a glance at the others—not even at her—and walks to his room.

The next morning, it seems to Iseult that the entire fort is alive. People rush about, yelling and shouting orders, frantically gathering whatever they can carry with them.

Overwhelmed by all of the noise and commotion, Iseult walks to the knights' stable hoping to find some shred of sanity. Instead, upon reaching the building, she stumbles upon quite a different scene.

"Dag! Y' can't stay here!" comes a yell from inside.

Recognizing the voice to belong to Bors, she stops before reaching the doorway and listens.

"I will not abandon Arthur," is the quiet reply.

"Y're not even fully healed. 't's been five days. Y' can't fight at full strength yet!"

'Dagonet intends to stay? To fight?' Iseult thinks, eyes widening in something quite close to fear.

"Arthur has always stood beside us, even when it was dangerous for him to do so. Do you not remember when Aetius was our commander and Arthur only second in command? Do you not remember how Aetius ordered Tristan and me to be tied to posts in the training arena without food or water, that he had us whipped, because he thought that we mocked him with our silence? Do you not remember that he said anyone caught helping us would suffer the same fate?"

"I remember…"

"And who was it that tried to object? Who was it that, in the night, brought us food and water? Who was it that suffered lashes because one of the other Romans reported him to Aetius?"

"… Arthur."

"He did not abandon Tristan and me. I will not abandon him."

"Then y'll die 'ere."

"So be it. I owe Arthur my life many times over."

"Dag! Y're not finking straight!"

"Bors," the tone is commanding, resolved. "I _will_ stay. Leave with the others if you wish."

Iseult stands beside the door, shocked and worried. Lost in her racing thoughts, she jumps and reaches for her knife when a voice speaks near her ear.

"What are you doing?"

Recognizing the voice—and surprised to find the owner speaking to her—she releases the grip on her dagger and turns.

"Shh," she cautions, finger to her lips. Curious brown eyes silently question her and she quietly answers. "Tristan. Dagonet intends to stay and fight beside Arthur."

At this, the scout's eyes slightly widen, and he quickly brushes past her and into the stable. Iseult follows and both she and Tristan are immediately noticed.

"Tris! Iseult!" shouts Bors, throwing his hands upwards. "Talk sense to 'im!"

Tristan and Dagonet simply stare unwaveringly at each other until at last Tristan speaks.

"You will do this?"

Dagonet nods, a grim and determined expression on his face.

Tristan studies him for just a moment longer and then turns to ready his horse. "I understand."

"What do you mean, 'I understand'," yells Bors, grabbing Tristan's shoulder and roughly turning him. " 'e's goin'ta kill 'imself!"

"It is his choice, Bors," Tristan calmly answers, eyes tired. "His fate. His choice."

The bulkier knight seems to crumple in on himself and as his energy abandons him, he releases Tristan's shoulder.

"Fine… Let 'im get 'imself killed," Bors murmurs, going to his horse—prepared before he had learned of Dagonet's decision—and leads the creature from the stable without looking to anyone else.

Iseult continues to stand, staring at Dagonet who had returned to readying his horse for battle.

He means to stay. To face an entire army. For what?

No longer for Rome, it is for loyalty to Arthur. A loyalty so strong he is willing to part with Bors whom she observes is his brother in every way that matters. A loyalty so strong he is willing to part with his life. He, Arthur, and whatever Woads might fight alongside them would be outnumbered. What does he, and for that matter Arthur, hope to gain? Such extraordinary men and their lives are to be thrown at the mercy of Fate!

"Iseult," Tristan calls. She at last tears her gaze from Dagonet to find Tristan looking at her. Ready to depart, he holds the reigns to his horse that is prepared for the journey. "You should ready your horse."

At this, Dagonet turns to her, expression heavy. "The other knights are already with the others that are leaving. It will not be long now."

Mutely, she nods, answering both of them. As she walks to her horse, Tristan leaves the stable. Reaching Mairete, she immediately goes through the actions she knows are necessary, but her mind is in turmoil. Completing her task, she takes Mairete's reins and leads her toward the door.

Despite her best efforts, Iseult cannot refrain from looking at him a last time and when she does, she unintentionally meets his gaze. The two stand, motionless, merely staring until at last Iseult breaks. Dropping her horse's reins, she walks to the giant knight and throws her arms around his chest in a tight hug.

Surprised, it takes Dagonet a few breaths to realize that she is crying and that he should react. Quickly but gently, he wraps his great arms around her shoulders and remains silent, knowing there is nothing that he can say.

After a few moments, Iseult at last pulls away and steps back, wiping her eyes before looking up at him.

"Dagonet. I will not try to persuade you from your decision, but I pray that…" she stops, unable to put her awful thoughts into words, and she bows her head, fighting back more tears. Blinking a few times, she regains control and looks up to him once more. "I pray that when… when you and Arthur win… You will visit my village so that Tristan and I may see you again."

Seeing her in this manner, knowing that such a visible vulnerability must be rare for her, he finds his own vision becoming slightly blurred. Bringing a smile to his face, he nods. "I can think of nothing I would like more."

With a hesitant nod, Iseult looks at him one last time before turning, retrieving Mairete's reins, and leaving the stable, feeling more tears threatening to fall.

Unhurriedly, she walks in the direction of where the evacuating caravan is and then, upon reaching the knights, she mounts her horse, never looking up at any of them. Not long following her arrival, they depart with the air of a funeral dirge.

Despite her superhuman efforts to remain optimistic for Dagonet, she knows that he and Arthur are doomed. They will both perish on the battlefield, two of the most honorable and noble men she has ever known, and Dagonet… She supposes by sunset, she will be without family again…

When they reach the point on the path where she knows Arthur and Dagonet will be on the hill, she fixes her gaze even more steadily on her hands that hold the reins. She cannot look up, even when she hears horse's hooves clatter away, when she hears Bors sound a battle cry, when those brave men on the hill return the cry, when Bors rides back to the caravan. Throughout it all, her thoughts are chaotic, but she remains unmoved in appearance.

Unbeknownst to Iseult in her current state of distraction, she is being watched.

She looks so sad. Clearly, she had grown quite fond of Dagonet. Tristan honestly is not all that surprised. Dagonet is, after all, perhaps the most caring of the knights and he had reached out to Iseult from the start.

Tristan wants to say something to her but is unsure of what he can say. He never has been much good with upset women and—considering how well most of his conversations with Iseult had gone thus far—he is not entirely sure that speaking is the correct course of action.

Suddenly, however, she looks up and her eyes meet his. Holding her gaze, he sees a fiery light within the two windows into her soul and he can almost guess what is to follow.

"What are we doing?" she loudly questions, taking her eyes from him to pan the other knights who are staring at her in surprise. "Do we really leave them in this manner?"

"They made their choice," answers Lancelot with more than a little ice to his tone.

"So we make this one? We run from a battle where our friends need us?" she retorts sharply, sneering. "Shame! I have not known either of them nearly so long and even I know that this is wrong."

"And what do _you_ propose? That we give up our freedom and our lives?"

"Freedom is not worth having without those you care about, I assure you."

For the briefest instant, Tristan ignores whatever brash and angry response Lancelot makes and stares at Iseult. She had glanced at him when she had spoken. Does that mean that she refers to him with her statement? Does she refer to how she had felt when the Romans took him? He had never understood why she had pleaded to go along when they collected him… Is this her reason?

"All _I_ know is that there are some things more valuable than freedom or even life. Such as loyalty, honor, _friendship_," the warrior woman firmly states, voice rising slightly. "And those are more important than all else."

Lancelot merely turns away from her, glowering, and so she continues, Tristan most intently watching her.

"Very well. Act like a child, Lancelot," she deeply scowls before looking to the others. "Will you leave your friends to Fate and Death whilst you flee, or will you stand with them whatever the cost? I have already made my decision."

Glancing once at Tristan as if uncertain as to whether or not she will ever see him again, she then turns her horse and sends it into a gallop, returning to the direction in whence they came.

"Aren't you going to stop her, Tristan? Bring her back?" Galahad worriedly questions.

"Her choice. Her fate," he says, repeating the words he had spoken to Bors, though his voice is now cold and hollow. His heart feels so heavy as though the entire world itself is suspended from it.

Before more can be said by anyone, however, the sound of drums reaches them and Tristan's horse, normally so well-behaved, begins to whinny and fight him.

As he tries to regain control, calm the creature, he notices that all of the other knights' horses are doing the same. Even Wylda, who rests perched on his arm, seems agitated and he must calm both her and his horse.

Through it takes several minutes, all of the animals have calmed and Tristan looks to his fellow knights, his brothers. That had been no coincidence, and he can see the same thought reflected in their eyes.

The _horses_ know where they should be and, in truth, so do the knights.

Meeting Lancelot's gaze, Tristan knows the decision has been reached and he turns to Wylda.

"Hey," he says softly, clicking his tongue to get her attention. "You're free."

He then tosses her upwards and she flaps and flies away. Staring up at the sky, Tristan sighs.

"Goodbye, my old friend…"


	17. Doomed

**Chapter Sixteen: Doomed**

Dagonet looks out over the hill watching the smoke rise in billows, obscuring his view of the sky.

He knows what waits on the other sides of the smoke, the other side of the wall. He does not fear the Saxons or even Death. He knows that he must do this. If he falls to a Saxon weapon, then he will fall, but he will do so with a clean and untroubled conscience. Had he left with the others, he would have been constantly bothered by 'what ifs', eaten away by guilt. If he had run away…

Dagonet's thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a horse's hooves hitting the ground, approaching at top speed. Looking to Arthur, he sees that his commander has also noticed the noise and has turned to find the source.

They soon see a lone rider approaching them in heavy Sarmatian armor, and when Dagonet squints a little, he realizes whom it is that rides toward them.

Upon the rider reaching them, both Arthur and Dagonet stare, unsure of what to say.

"I will fight with you," Iseult states flatly, bringing her horse to stand beside Dagonet's horse.

"Iseult," begins Arthur, "are you certain that you wish to—"

"I will fight with you," she repeats.

Though there is no change in her facial expression other than her jaw clenching, her eyes flash beneath the brim of her helmet. Clearly, she has made her decision and nothing shall sway her from it.

Maybe selfishly, Dagonet finds his heart swell a little, for it is not only that Iseult grew fond of the giant knight; Dagonet has become attached to Iseult as well. She is one of the few women, besides Vanora and Flanna, who looks beyond his scars and sees him, and as such, he has been able to be more open and friendly with her than he has attempted with a woman for quite some time.

Still, he also feels his heart grow heavy.

Quietly, he addresses her with his most pressing thought. "And what of Tristan? You have left him to be here."

He does not miss how she flinches as if the words bring her pain or the look in her eyes as she next speaks.

"I have done what I know in my heart is right," she says firmly before dropping her gaze and her voice. "No matter how much it pains me…"

The gentle-hearted knight understands to some extent of what she speaks. He had left Bors—the closest he has to family—and he had sent Lucan and Flanna with Vanora who had promised that she would make sure they reached safety. Leaving Bors, especially in the manner he had, hurt Dagonet, but leaving Lucan… the small child crying and holding to him, begging him not to fight again… that had nearly broken him entirely…

Still, he knows it is not the same pain that Iseult must be experiencing now. It has been abundantly clear to him since the first time he had seen how she looks at Tristan, that Iseult thinks of the scout—perhaps even without her conscious knowledge—as something much more dear to her than a friend.

Though not an overly sentimental man, Dagonet cannot but think of them almost as two souls intertwined in a very intricate dance. They spiral around each other almost unconsciously, but with every time they draw apart, it only renews their hopes of meeting again. As such, he has no doubt that Iseult, in choosing to leave Tristan to fight, knowing that she will most likely never see him again… How had she made herself ride to this forsaken hill without changing her mind and returning to Tristan?

"It is almost time," Arthur comments. "The Saxons will come soon and we three… and the Woads… We will fight for freedom."

Turning to look at him, Dagonet remains silent. Arthur speaks the truth. He can almost feel the coming battle. The energy pulsates through the air with more strength and volume than Saxon drums could ever produce, leaving every breath a little shaky and uncertain.

Even as he begins to steel his mind for what is soon to come, the sound of more horses nearby catches the attention of Arthur, and Iseult and himself. Turning, the three of them watch as five more horses approach with very familiar riders in full battle armor.

"Tristan," Iseult breathes, whether in disbelief, disappointment, or happiness, Dagonet cannot determine for he does not look at her, only the knights that are growing ever nearer.

As they arrive, Dagonet and Iseult move their mounts slightly so that Bors may position himself on the other side of Dagonet, between the giant knight and Arthur. To Iseult's surprise, Tristan falls into line beside her.

Perplexed by more than one matter, Iseult stares at him for a long moment before she speaks.

"You came."

He nods once and then replies, "My fate. My choice. You are surprised?"

Even as the Saxons start forward, chanting loudly, Iseult can only turn forward with a smile.

"Knights," calls Arthur, moving his horse in front of their line, his expression grim yet somehow peaceful, "the gift of freedom is yours by right… But the home we seek resides not in some distant land. It's in us, and in our actions on this day."

A surge of energy, a swell of pride, envelops the small band of warriors as Arthur speaks, and they listen soundlessly, eyes for nothing but watching their commander.

"If this be our destiny," continues Arthur solemnly, "then so be it. But, let history remember that as free men, as free _peoples_, we _chose_ to make it so."

They all watch as he unsheathes his sword and raises it high above him toward the cloudy sky even as a ray of sunlight breaks through the gloom, making the sword glitter as though enchanted.

Stirred by Arthur's speech and moved by the awe-inspiring sight before them, all of those watching sound their battle cry and plant their banners into the ground. The Saxon would not pass beyond these markers. Not as long as any of them have breath left in their bodies.

Catching movement from beside her, Iseult glances to Tristan who is aiming an arrow. In the blink of an eye, the arrow is released, disappearing into the sky and—judging by the angle of its ascent—likely reappearing on the other side of the wall. Though she does not know at what he had aimed, she does not doubt that he has hit it.

Tristan, catching her inquisitive stare speaks. "There has been a scout familiar with this land, a Briton, who has assisted the Saxon. He can do so no longer."

Iseult can almost hear the dark amusement in his voice and, as a result, she finds herself smirking.

"Oh. Is that all? I'm sure they will not miss him terribly long since they'll soon join him. I suppose he can scout out the afterlife for them before they arrive."

To her right, Dagonet and Bors chuckle.

"An' we'll make sure 'e's no' kept waiting long," rumbles Bors, clanging fist to chest plate.

Not but a few moments later, arrows sent from Woad bows streak through the air, descending upon the first line of Saxons.

"Knights. Now!" exclaims Arthur after the Saxons enter the gates.

Without another word, they charge down the hill, weapons drawn and ready.

Almost as silently as snow, they fall upon the Saxons. Swift harbingers of Death, they cut down their enemy with practiced precision, disappearing and reappearing in the smoke, like phantoms.

They repeat the process until the only living Saxon escapes through the gates.

For a fleeting few moments, there is quiet… And then the clamor of approaching Saxons begins anew.

Iseult, wiping the blood from her sword onto her left boot, looks around, locates all of the knights, and finds them thus far to appear unharmed. Even Dagonet seems to be faring well still.

Turning, she watches as the Saxon army divides into sections and continues forward.

Their approach is discouraged, however, when at the signal of Arthur, Woads rain fiery death upon them in the form of projectiles launched from catapults and of arrows. The Saxons think themselves prepared for such an attack and raise their crude wooden shields, which protect them…

Until the surprise is discovered when one of the flaming arrows strike the ground and it erupts into an inferno. Instantly, the sounds of death fill the air from those unlucky enough to have been standing in or near the deposits of tar Arthur had so wisely placed.

Even as the Saxon ranks are forcibly split, the Woads attack, led by Guinevere. As the two armies meet and at Arthur's command, Iseult charges forward once more with the knights. Seeing nothing but a sea of Saxons and fire and smoke, Iseult cannot but think in the back of her mind as agonized screams rip through the air that truly nothing on this side of the hereafter could come any closer to the Roman idea of hell.

Soon, she cannot concern herself with any other thoughts as she is in the thick of battle, slashing, cutting, stabbing, defending. In the frenzied chaos, she loses sight of the others, only focusing on whatever opponent she faces at any given moment. Her only goal, her only thought, is to survive.

Perhaps this is why she is so surprised that somewhere in the midst of the fighting, something begins to tug upon her soul again with more force than even the previous experience. Therefore, after striking down her nearest opponent, she quickly looks around her.

The first knight she locates is Gawain. He is on foot, fighting as one possessed. Pivoting as she fells another Saxon, she spies Bors and then Dagonet. Next, she sees Galahad and, a little farther away, Lancelot.

Upon searching almost frantically, she sees Tristan and also whom he is fighting…

Cerdic. The Saxon king.

Even at the distance she finds herself, she sees that Tristan is struggling. His movements are not nearly as fluid as they are wont to be and he swings widely with only one arm rather than both.

Before she can even take in her next breath, she is no longer on the battlefield but staring at a burial mound…

'… fell to Cerdic… fought bravely… must have known…'

and in the burial mound is…

Icy fear grips her heart and soul as she has never before felt. For once, she does not question the voice, the images. Ignoring a sudden pain to her leg, she kicks her horse into action, hacking and slashing in order to clear her path. It is not easy as the fighting is a dense conglomeration of friend and foe alike. She does soon find herself halfway there at last, but reaches an impasse as the huddles of combatants are now so close together that to part them would be nigh impossible for her.

"Iseult!" a voice yells as a hand catches her knee. Spinning and looking down barely, she meets Dagonet's worried gaze. "What is wrong? You look as though—"

"It's Tristan!" she interrupts, killing a Saxon just as Dagonet drives his battle-axe through another. "I must reach him, Dagonet! He fights Cerdic!"

At her words, his expression becomes like stone and he looks around the field for something. Apparently catching sight of whatever he has been looking for, he raises forefinger and thumb to his mouth and loudly whistles.

A piercing and angry whinny is heard and it is but a few moments later that Dagonet's horse appears. The knight jumps effortless into the saddle and then turns to Iseult.

"I will clear the way! Stay right behind me!"

Iseult nods and the giant immediately starts forward, flattening enemies with his sword in one hand and axe in the other as Iseult follows closely behind him.

They ride, plowing down whoever does not move, until they finally reach the last wall of people.

"Go now!" Dagonet yells, steering his horse to one side and taking out several enemy fighters in the process.

Iseult hunches slightly lower in the saddle and sends Mairete into a full run, trampling or cutting down anyone in her way.

Her eyes remain fixed upon Tristan over the crowd, never turning her eyes from him, even as she slashes through the jumble, but suddenly, in the blink of an eye, he disappears from her view. Fearing the worst, she spurs her horse to go just a little faster. At last, reaching her goal, she sheaths her sword and throws herself from her horse, making sure to calculate it so that her full weight impacts Cerdic.

The force sends the startled Saxon and Iseult to the ground. Hitting it, Iseult momentarily has the breath knocked from her lungs but recovers and stands to her feet, positioning herself between Tristan and Cerdic.

She carefully kneels beside Tristan, meaning to check to see if he lives, but the Saxon recovers too quickly and she stands to her full height.

"Who're you?" the Saxon king questions in a quiet rasp before looking at Tristan and then back to her. "That your mate, woman?"

"My friend," she replies, drawing her sword.

"Ah," he rattles, appraising her. "You're a warrior, are you? Let's see then."

The two immediately launch into battle. Again, Iseult refuses to allow herself to think, to move on instinct.

The Saxon is strong and powerful, and Iseult soon feels the previous fights taking their toll on her. Her arms seem so heavy. Her legs shake with each blow delivered. She feels as though her arms might break.

Regardless, she continues, driven by only one goal. Earning cuts, scrapes, even the occasional stab wound does not deter her, but eventually Cerdic swings his sword with just enough force that Iseult's blade is thrown from her hand. Even as she yanks a knife from its hidden compartment in her boot, the Saxon lashes out with the hilt of the sword and she falls.

O

"Where… she… say you saw…"

"… way… went ahead… —omewhere…"

"Sure… this way?"

"…—m sure."

"Arthur said… —re dead…"

"We find th… to bury… Wait! I see som—… There!"

The outside world is slowly drifting back to her as random sounds and words filter through the blackness, but it is not until rough yet careful hands lift her to be cradled against someone's chest that her hearing entirely returns.

"She breathes," a quiet voice states in wonder after several moments, the chest she is cradled to rumbling. "Arthur thought they were both dead!"

"It's not a complete tragedy then…" replies another soft voice.

Slowly, Iseult forces her eyelids open. She finds herself looking up at Dagonet whose gaze is directed elsewhere until her muscles tense, immediately attracting his attention.

"Iseult!" he exclaims as she sits up, a small tired smile spreading across his face.

She nods to him and then turns to where Tristan lies. Immediately, she stands to her feet—a dizzy spell attacking her at the sudden motion—and she stumbles over to him, kneeling beside Gawain who is already at Tristan's side.

"Iseult…" sighs Gawain, dreading what is next to happen. "I think… I think that…"

He is stopped most decidedly when Iseult abruptly holds a hand up signaling him to not follow through with his words.

Mutely, she pulls a hidden knife from her armor and holds the flat of it to Tristan's mouth. Despite the curious look from Gawain, she waits until a fine mist forms on the cold metal.

Her heart leaps and she quickly stands. Again assaulted by dizziness, she ignores it and whistles for her horse before turning her attention to the two knights.

"Dagonet. Gawain. I am going to mount my horse. I need you to lift Tristan in front of me."

"He lives?" questions Dagonet, eyes wide and full of incredulity.

As Mairete trots over to Iseult and stops, hoof stamping the ground, Iseult mounts and then nods in answer. "Yes. But we must hurry if we are to keep it that way."

Quickly yet carefully, Gawain and Dagonet lift Tristan to be sitting in front of Iseult. Immediately, she wraps one arm around his torso, securing him as best she can and then looks to Dagonet.

"Meet me outside the infirmary as quickly as you can Dagonet."

The healer nods and whistles for his own horse as Iseult sends hers into a run.

She knows Mairete is tired, but Iseult cannot allow the pace to be slow. Tristan's life hangs by a thread and if they are to save him, her horse must outrun Death and all of his horses. Somehow, Iseult knows that Mairete understands because the horse does not argue or complain of the pace. She only runs, the scenery nearly blurring around them.

A weak moan pulls Iseult from her racing thoughts and she gently tightens her hold around her friend's chest.

"We will be there soon…" she nearly whispers. "Please… Please stay with us…"

It seems a lifetime has passed but at last they reach the building that houses the infirmary and she waits another small eternity until Dagonet arrives and dismounts.

The knight carefully lifts Tristan from the exhausted horse and—despite his own injuries not fully healed and those newly acquired—the giant knight carries his brother into the building, Iseult dismounting and following right behind him.

They do not speak. They do nothing but walk, the corridor filled with no sound but the harsh slap of boots on the stone flooring. Iseult's heart continues to beat wildly and her mind whirls in a thousand different directions but at the center of the tumult is one thought:

He must live.

At last reaching the infirmary, Dagonet lays Tristan down on one of the beds and sets to work.

As Iseult gathers what will be needed from the wall of medical supply shelving, Dagonet removes Tristan's armor, tunic, and undershirt to reveal several wounds, some looking as though they had occurred during the return journey to the Wall from their final mission and had simply reopened, but there are also several others that are fresh.

After a while, Dagonet needs ask nothing else from Iseult and with the lack of tasks, her energy at last deserts her and she practically falls into a chair beside the bed on which Tristan lies.

He must survive. He simply must. What will she do if he does not? She had not told him that… that…

"Iseult," Dagonet says gently, only continuing when she looks to him. "I have done all that I can do for Tristan at the moment. I should take a look at your wounds, too."

Confused, Iseult looks down at herself and realizes that she is indeed bleeding. The wound on her knee had reopened and the stitches at her shoulder had torn. She had also, in the course of battle, obtained several other less serious cuts that had appeared on her arms and sides, as well as one stab wound to her right leg.

Instead of speaking, Iseult only nods and removes her armor, adjusting her shirt as need be for whatever wounds to which Dagonet requires access and rolling up the leg of her pants when he is ready.

After he deems the stitching and bandaging satisfactory, the knight stands, gathers up the extra supplies, and walks to the wall of shelving. As he returns everything to its proper place, he glances over his shoulder to where Iseult sits beside Tristan.

"You need rest," he states in a matter of fact tone, readying himself for the battle yet to come.

Contrary to what he expects, however, his statement receives no reply.

Brow furrowing at the silence, he completely turns to look at her.

"Iseult?"

Again, no answer is given and he becomes nervous. Walking to her, he then slightly leans down to find that Iseult is already asleep. A small smile comes to his face as he realizes that not only had she fallen asleep. She had fallen asleep holding Tristan's hand.

Without a sound, Dagonet retrieves a clean blanket from the shelving and then wraps it around Iseult's shoulders. After he is certain that she is situated and that there is no danger of her falling out of the chair, he leaves the room to search out the others and to see how they fare.


	18. Mask

**Chapter Seventeen: Mask**

Over the next several days, Iseult finds herself living in the infirmary.

Tristan is also in the infirmary. At first, he had brief episodes of feverish consciousness. It was nearly the same pattern each time. He would wake, confused and agitated. His speech would be an incoherent jumble of the language of Rome and that of their birthplace. She would speak softly to him in their dialect—twice she had sung him a lullaby—and he would relax and again succumb to unconsciousness.

Everyday, always at least twice a day but usually more often, Dagonet would come to the infirmary to bring food to Iseult and to check up on Tristan. Several of those times, the giant knight had attempted to make Iseult go sleep in an actual bed in one of the many empty rooms of the knights' rooms but never did he ever succeed in his endeavor. Usually, Dagonet would enter the infirmary in the mornings to find her asleep in the chair beside Tristan, holding his hand just as she had on the first day he had been brought here and as she had every subsequent day.

This particular afternoon, Iseult sits watching out the window. Based on the time, Dagonet will soon appear with her meal and with the intention of replacing Tristan's bandages with fresh ones, as long as Dag's schedule has not been altered.

Apparently, nothing out of the ordinary has occurred because, just as she looks to the door, Dagonet appears with a tray of food in hand. As has become routine, Iseult stands from her chair, meets him halfway, takes the tray, and places it on a table.

Dagonet shakes his head, but at this point he that knows scolding her will prove naught. Based on his experience of the past days, after Tristan is tended to, she will eat.

"Anything different today?" Dagonet asks, walking to the medical shelves.

Walking over to join him at the shelves, she sighs. "Only that his fever finally broke earlier this morning."

"That is a good sign," he replies with a slight smile as he reaches for the bandages. "Perhaps it will not be much longer until he wakes, yes?"

"Maybe," she replies, suddenly sounding thoughtful. "Dagonet… I am… worried. His fever was so high… And it has been several days…"

Glancing at her, he knows that she is greatly troubled. The last few days have taken their toll on her and the proof can be found in the dark circles under her slightly bloodshot eyes, the result of little—if any—quality sleep. Again, she has begun to lose weight from lack of appetite, suspecting she had never fully regained her shape from her original journey to the Wall.

"Iseult. Tristan is much too stubborn to allow Death a victory. You needn't worry."

He honestly is not certain whether, in his reassuring tones, he is trying to comfort her… or himself.

"I know that and I hope that you are right, but—"

"Is… eult?"

At the quiet croak, both Dagonet and Iseult stop what they are doing and look to each other. After being assured through his expression that Dagonet had heard the same sound she had, Iseult spins around just as Tristan tries to turn his head to look at them and rediscovers the wound on the back of his neck. Seeing his wince of pain as he abandons the idea of turning to find the one whose name he had called, Iseult quickly walks to his side.

Turning completely to watch them, Dagonet smiles warmly at the two as Iseult sits down in _her_ chair beside Tristan's bed.

"How are you feeling?" she questions, voice quiet.

The scout is silent for a moment before answering, voice rough from disuse," Like I have been dead for weeks."

Laughing, Dagonet responds, "Close enough, but I'll leave for a moment or two so that you can speak with your diligent nurse."

He almost laughs again at the expression on Tristan's face as he leaves the room but somehow restrains his amusement until after he is out of earshot.

After Dagonet departs from the room, Tristan focuses on Iseult. As he looks at her, he tries to determine how she fared from the battle. She has several bandages here and there, but she seems all right for the most part. He does, however, observe that there is a warmth to her eyes and a faint smile upon her lips that makes him wonder as to the cause.

"What—"

"Wait a moment," she interrupts, standing. "Let me bring you water."

He watches her until she is beyond his line of sight and, not wanting to make the mistake of moving his neck too much again, he merely waits until at last she returns with a cup.

"Do you need for me to help you sit up or…?"

Before she can even finish her question, he attempts to sit up but the pain originating from the wound under his right arm surges, and he quickly falls back onto the bed.

"If you couldn't, you should have said so instead of hurting yourself again," she chides gently, setting the cup down on the table beside the bed and then assisting him.

Bracing him with one hand on his shoulder, she picks up the cup with the other and carefully passes it to him, not releasing it entirely until she is certain that he can steadily hold it.

His first drink; he must briefly stop long enough to cough, his dry throat currently unused to water. After that, however, he drinks without issue and, upon drinking his fill, he returns the cup to Iseult who places it on the table once more.

"Now what were you going to ask me?"

"What happened?" he questions, voice already much improved.

He notices instantly how Iseult's countenance darkens, but instead of looking away, she looks him straight in the eye.

"We won the battle. The Saxon will not trouble us again for some time at least."

"But what happened? What of the others?"

This time, she does glance down before meeting his inquiring gaze once more.

"Lancelot… Lancelot didn't make it…" she says slowly as if still trying to accept the idea.

Tristan feels his heart fall a little at her words. Another knight lost.

"How?"

"Cynric. The Saxon king's son. Guinevere says that the coward waited until Lancelot was distracted and found a crossbow. Cynric shot Lancelot as soon as he had turned to face him again. The arrow… the arrow was too near his heart and nothing could be done…"

Silence fills the room for several moments until at last Tristan speaks. "Did someone kill the filthy Saxon bastard?"

"Lancelot did… Before he died, he killed Cynric," Iseult answers.

"Good for him," the scout replies, a ghost of a smile coming to his face.

"Well… I'm going to retrieve Dagonet once more so that he can check your wounds," she states as she stands.

As she turns to leave, however, she feels his hand weakly catch hers.

"Iseult."

His voice is odd, almost with a note of worry. Turning, she meets his gaze and smiles kindly. "I'll return shortly, Tristan."

With a sigh, he releases her hand and listens to her steady footsteps as she leaves the room.

Tristan finds himself, at present, to be more than a little confused.

When he had begun to awake, he first heard Dagonet's voice. Even in the midst of fighting his way back to the world outside of himself, he had listened. Every word was a branch he used to climb from the dark underbrush to the bright light of the day. It was a slow shaky ascent and he nearly lost his footing several times, but eventually he reached the treetop.

When at last he had opened his eyes, he had been able to focus on the one quiet voice he wanted to hear more than any other, and he had immediately, unthinkingly called out her name. The silence thereafter had worried him because he hoped that he had not imagined her voice.

When she appeared in his view, when he heard her speak, felt that she was solid and not an apparition… for a reason he refused to admit, he was relieved. Relieved that she was there… that she was alive…

Even in hearing of Lancelot's fate, all he could really focus on was that Iseult lived. He had just become comfortable and certain in that fact when she had stated she had to find Dagonet.

Irrationally, he had panicked a little and—completely without consciously deciding to do so—he had caught her hand.

He still cannot explain to himself _why_ he had done that, and before he can ponder it any further, he hears footsteps followed by another set. He waits patiently until both enter his view and notes that Dagonet is preparing for something and Tristan suspects that he knows for what.

"Tristan," Dagonet begins upon coming to stand beside him, Iseult a little behind Dagonet.

The raising of an eyebrow is the only acknowledgement given.

Undeterred, the giant knight continues. "Tristan. I need to clean and re-bandage your injuries."

As Dagonet had expected of him, Tristan's brow furrows and the corners of his mouth downturn. "I can do that myself."

Casting a glance upward as though pleading with some higher being for strength and patience, the healer then returns his attention to Tristan.

"I have no doubt that you are knowledgeable enough as I have seen you clean and bandage your own wounds many times, but, Tristan, I do not think that you are capable of it in your current condition."

Of course, questioning Tristan's _capability_ to do something is in the scout's mind the same as questioning his _ability_ to do something and doing either is never the best way to win any argument. Before the irritated patient can reply, though, Iseult intervenes.

"Tristan, please just allow us to do this. We do not wish you to further injure yourself with your prideful stubbornness," she scowls, hands now resting on her hips.

Tristan can almost convince himself that she is angry with him and, if he had been able to convince himself entirely, the argument would have continued. Something in her expression, however, tells him otherwise. It is not quite as harsh as it should be, and her eyes are not alight as they are when she is angry. In fact, he sees, through those two portals, genuine concern and worry.

Though he values his independence, he will not purposely worry her so with a resigned sigh, he relents and nods.

"Fine."

Dagonet, more than a little surprised at their victory, quickly retrieves the cleaning solution and bandages lest the obstinate knight change his mind.

As had been routine, Iseult carefully removes the old bandages and cleans the wounds; Dagonet follows behind her applying the correct medicinal herbs or salves and then wraps new bandages around the patient. Throughout the process, Iseult and Dagonet both know that Tristan is not happy that they tend to him, but, for the present, he is compliant and they say nothing more on the matter.

After all of his injuries have been cleaned and bandaged, Dagonet gathers the medical supplies and walks to the shelves while Iseult once more sits in her chair beside Tristan's bed.

"When was the funeral?" Tristan suddenly asks.

Turning, Dagonet leans against the cabinets and looks to him.

"Three days ago."

For the briefest instant, as the scout stares at the floor, Dagonet sees him sigh and close his eyes, then reopen them.

"I want to see the grave."

"Lancelot had asked Arthur to burn him and scatter his ashes, but he does have an honorary burial mound with his sword marking it…"

"I want to see it," Tristan repeats, at last looking up to make eye contact with Dagonet.

The knight tiredly shakes his head and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking to Tristan. "I will get Bors and we will help you to the hill, Tris, but not today. Tomorrow, if you are able."

Iseult watches as Dagonet and Tristan continue to hold each other's gaze and, in looking at Tristan, she recognizes his look of questioning defiance.

Crossing his arms, Dagonet levels his stare at the stubborn scout.

"No arguing, Tristan. Today you need your rest. If you are able tomorrow, we will take you to the cemetery."

His tone leaves no room for debate and, in defeat, Tristan looks away and down at the floor.

"Now," Dagonet begins. "We will return later, but Arthur had asked me to inform him when you awoke and Iseult needs to rest in a bed for once, not in a chair. And Tristan, do not even entertain the idea of attempting to sneak out of this room. I will have Gawain and Bors standing outside with strict orders to keep you here."

With that, Dagonet motions for Iseult to leave and—as per usual—he sees her open her mouth to protest, but he gives her the same stare that had been formerly directed at Tristan.

Perhaps from exhaustion or perhaps even just wanting to avoid an argument, the woman sighs and begrudgingly exits the room.

After the door closes, Dagonet allows a few minutes to tick by before addressing his patient.

"She did not leave your bedside except when Gawain or I ordered her from the room. For the majority of the past five days, she has stayed in that chair. Every time you ran a fever, every time one of your bandages needed changing, she was right there to do what she could to help you," Dagonet states, pointing to the chair Iseult had just vacated. When he sees Tristan merely staring at him in a blank manner, the older knight become slightly agitated.

"She's also the one who saved your ungrateful arse on the battlefield."

At last, Dagonet sees a reaction as the scout's mask chips a little, giving way to surprise. Encouraged by the small amount of progress, he continues.

"I suppose you did not expect that, did you? After you fell, she fought Cerdic until he rendered her unconscious. As near as I can tell from when I examined her injuries, he hit her in the head with the hilt of his sword… But I ramble. Let me return to my point. By the time she fell, Arthur had arrived. He killed Cerdic but ran to Lancelot thinking the two of you to be dead. It was not until the last Saxon were sent to whatever version of tortured otherworld they believe in that Arthur was able to send Gawain and me to find the two of you.

"When we found you and her, I walked to Iseult, meaning to carry her to where Lancelot was already, but when I had lifted her I felt her breath on my neck and realized that she was alive. Not long after I had told Gawain the news, she awoke and walked to you. She looked so fragile… like she might shatter if…" Dagonet pauses a moment and then continues anew. "She knelt beside you and discovered you had not yet left this world and so we brought you to the infirmary.

"You were unstable for a good while as I worked on you, but we did as much as we possibly could, and she has not left you, by choice, since then," Dagonet states evenly, carefully watching the silent scout. At last, upon being certain in the validity of the thought to which he will next give voice, he speaks again.

"You may act as though you do not care for her; you may even have convinced yourself that it is truth, but, Tristan, I have watched you while I relayed this to you, and—let me tell you something—that facade of yours isn't as perfect as you think it is. You care more for her than you would let anyone know. But you must tell her Tristan. She can only suffer for so long before she gives up entirely."

At his words, his patient tries to remain impassive, but Dagonet has known him for far too long and knows what signs to look for to tell him that his words have been heard.

"Well. As I have told you already. Arthur is waiting for my report, so I must leave you. I shall return later to check on your wounds once more."

With no response from Tristan—he honestly hadn't expected one—he leaves.

Hours pass and the scout is still awake in the infirmary.

He had tried to sleep and failed. He had tried to sneak out only to find that Dagonet had not been bluffing about Gawain and Bors standing outside the door.

Now he is sitting on his bed in the infirmary glaring at the walls that confine him, the windows to small to climb out from that tease him with a glimpse of freedom, and at the door where two knights stand watch. Two knights who had best absent themselves when he is at last to full strength again.

For several hours, he had done this in complete and utter silence until at last he begins to hear people speaking outside the doors to his prison.

"I wouldn't," says the voice of Bors speaking to someone whose voice Tristan had not heard. " 'e's in foul temper right now. Tris's never taken t' bein' in one place for very long."

"Especially when there is somewhere else he wants to be…" Gawain's voice contributes.

"Like visitin' th' cemet'ry."

"won't… peace offerings… took me an hour to track down…"

He can only barely distinguish the third voice and not nearly well enough to identify the owner though the cadence and overall tone is familiar to him.

"Weren't you to be sleeping in that time?" questions Gawain.

"Well, as I was walking to my assigned quarters," the voice begins, finally allowing Tristan volume enough to put a name to it. "I discovered that Dagonet had been distracted because Flanna went into labor and he and the fort's doctor were needed. So I had to go search out Arthur and inform him of Tristan, and then I decided it was much too close to supper time to sleep so I went on a search, took a break long enough to check on Flanna and her baby girl, and then resumed my search finding _this_… Of course, I could simply leave and the two of you can deal with an upset Tristan with plenty of sharp implements and his fingertips."

At those words, Tristan quite nearly hits himself. Of course! This is the infirmary where knives and needles abound! He could have escaped _hours_ ago!

"I still wouldn't…" Gawain responds at last.

Knowing that this will only continue, the frustrated scout raises his voice slightly and cries out, "What am I? A prisoner? Would you let her in for the sake of my sanity? I cannot listen to you three bicker like old women any longer."

Silence reigns on the other side of the door until slowly it opens. Tristan, still more than slightly irritated with the world in general, shifts his glare to the bowl on his bedside table. A bowl full of some 'healing' something or other that had been brought to him by Bors. According to Vanora, it has pain-relieving qualities, though, by the look and smell of it, Tristan doubts that it relieves pain in any way other than bringing about the need for a new grave.

From the corner of his eye, he at last sees her peek into the room—thanks to an argument he had convinced Bors and Gawain to shift his bed so that he could see the door—and then sees her step fully inside his prison, but he does not completely look at her as Dagonet's words still hang in the air.

" 'ey! Why 'aven't you eaten?" Bors shouts from his post after apparently noticing the bowl of death had maintained all of its original contents.

Without a moment's hesitation or a second thought, Tristan replies, "Because nothing that smells or looks this terrible can be good for _anything_."

Even with his gaze directed at the bowl, he knows that Bors face had surely turned a rather unhealthy shade of angry red. " 'nora made that to help you heal! 't's an' ol' family rec'pe passed down in her family."

When Bors receives not so much as a look from the scout, he becomes even angrier. "Why y' ungrateful—"

Tristan can only assume by the muffled words that Gawain had hastily closed the door for fear of the conflict escalating.

At last, with the door closed, Tristan allows himself to turn his attention to his visitor and is surprised to find that he had two visitors rather than one.

Iseult, perhaps sensing his change in mood, approaches his bedside.

"You found her," he says quietly, the barest upturn to his lips as he holds his right arm out. The hawk carefully crosses to his arm, and Tristan gently strokes the magnificent creature's feathers.

"Once I reached the area she was in, she found me actually. I think she was worried about you," Iseult comments.

"Eh? You were worried?" he asks the hawk, gently clicking to get her attention. "You were worried?"

At this, to Iseult's surprise, the hawk bobs down once as if answering and the scout softly chuckles.

Iseult watches for a moment without interrupting—amazed by how tranquil Tristan suddenly seems—but then she remembers the other peace offering for which she had searched.

"I brought something else that I think you'll like better than _that_," she smiles indicating the death stew on his bedside table.

Upon receiving a curious look from Tristan, she produces a round-shaped, cloth-wrapped object from a satchel at her side. Unwrapping the cloth reveals an apple and Iseult hands it to him, then takes a knife from her bag and gives him that as well.

Without a word, he places the two objects on the table, the motion prompting the hawk to move to the headboard on the bed. As he does this, Tristan watches from the corner of his eye as Iseult sits and turns to stare out the window.

Observing her for several moments, he notices that she seems distracted. Clearly her mind is far away and once more he wonders what she is thinking.

It is not until she starts and turns to look at him that he realizes that he has spoken his thoughts aloud.

"What?" she asks.

Realizing that there is no point to denying he had spoken or to changing the question as he is not sure how much she had heard—he is not even sure how much he had spoken—he repeats it instead.

"What are you thinking?"

Shrugging, she sighs. "A little of everything I suppose… The battle mostly…"

At this, Tristan nods in understanding and looks away, not sure he wishes to speak of the battle.

He finds he is still confused. He feels as though he should have died in that battle. He feels as though he was _fated_ to die there. What does he do now? What does he do now that he is not only free but alive?

"Tristan…" her voice, suddenly even more quiet than normal, calls his name. Turning to meet her gaze, he silently waits for what she will say.

"I do not know why most of our talks have ended so poorly… I suppose no small measure of it is how long we have been apart and another that each of us have changed in that time… but I do not wish us to be so far apart…"

Though he says nothing in reply, she knows he is listening by the expression in his eyes and, thus encouraged, she continues.

"When I saw you fighting Cerdic… All I could think of was that you might fall… And there was still so much I needed to tell you… And I knew that, regardless of everything that has happened, I could not lose you because…"

Realizing how close she and Tristan have become over the course of her speech, she loses her words. For several moments, she only stares at him until, wordlessly, she leans forward, bridging the small distance between them and chastely presses her lips to his before pulling away from him.

Tristan, caught entirely off guard by the action, merely stares a little wide-eyed at her.

Her face suddenly turning an uncharacteristic shade, Iseult stands and quickly leaves the room, throwing the door open in her rush to do so.

Gawain, who had nearly been hit by the door being opened in such a rough manner, peeks into the room to look at Tristan.

"What did you do?" the golden-haired knight accusingly questions.

"I… did nothing," Tristan replies, for a second time in his life finding himself at a complete loss.

" 'at's definitely why she ran off then, right?" Bors sarcastically comment from behind the safety of the wall before the door closes again.

Sitting bewildered for another several minutes, the bemused scout at last shakes his head and picks up the apple and knife from the table beside him.

"Women…" he sighs with not nearly the same conviction or disdain as had usually been found in the word when he spoke it.


	19. The Reason

**Chapter Eighteen: The Reason**

Late the next afternoon, Tristan journeys to the graveyard with Gawain and Bors following to supervise him. Once at the grave, he pays his silent respects to his fallen comrade, his brother-in-arms.

Tristan has no doubt that Arthur feels the loss more deeply than any of them; nonetheless, it is quite sharp for everyone. Regardless of how Lancelot had a predilection for annoying and teasing everyone, he had always fought his best for them, had always been a good brother to all of them.

Even Tristan, restraining himself with every ounce of his self-control, cannot but become a little misty-eyed while standing in front of the grave.

He had always thought that he would be the one to die in battle. In all honesty, he had never actually expected to see the end of his fifteen years of required service to Rome, and he had never expected to live through the battle at Badon Hill. Yet, here he is in the graveyard, not in the ground but above it, and he finds that he must attribute this to Iseult.

From what Dagonet and Gawain, and she had told him, she had attacked Cerdic before the Saxon had a chance to deal him a mortal wound. Despite the fact that she knew she could not defeat Cerdic—just as he had known _he_ would not defeat Cerdic—she attacked anyway, simply to protect her friend.

Almost involuntarily, he shakes his head.

She had done more than protect him.

Dagonet had given him another talking to last night. When everyone else had thought him dead, she had been the last to give up hope. It was she who had realized he was alive and she who had brought him to the infirmary. She had saved him from Death who had been ready to claim him.

Inadvertently, his mind drifts to the previous day. He had not seen her the rest of yesterday or so far today. He wants to speak to her, but clearly, she is trying to avoid him. Why does she find it necessary to always run away before he can even manage to gather his words together?

Twice.

That is how many times she has done this to him. Once before he left for his service to Rome and then yesterday.

Why?

Pushing his confused thoughts from his mind, he finishes his visit at the grave, leaving around the hilt of the sword in the burial mound the wooden pendant that his brother-in-arms often wore.

Gawain and Bors following at close distance behind him—after all, he might get annoyed if they are too close—they all begin towards the direction of the infirmary.

Tristan has yet to discover a way to escape the return to his prison; this is mostly due to the fact that Dagonet had been very exact in the idea that, if they scout did not return immediately after leaving the cemetery, he would find him and chain him to the bed so that he could go nowhere and would remain there until he had fully recovered, which could be months.

Truthfully, he cannot argue with Dagonet. He had not even partially healed at this point. Even now, his muscles protest the strain under which he puts them and he struggles to refrain from breathing too heavily. Somehow, he forces himself to remain as impassive as possible under the circumstances. He will not allow Gawain and Bors to see that he is tiring. It is enough that they see how profoundly he limps. They will not know the full extent of his injuries and their effects upon him.

Still… He does wish that he could go search for Iseult instead of return to the infirmary…

Movement from the corner of Tristan's peripheral vision stops him, and he turns to looks at the source.

Galahad is running towards them, clearly in great upset and horribly out of breath. Even before the young knight reaches them, he shouts, "She's leaving!"

"Who is Galahad?" Gawain asks as Galahad stops in front of them, doubling over from his exertion.

"Iseult! She's saddled her horse and intends to leave."

"Why?" Tristan immediately questions.

"I don't know! I think she said something about going back to where she belongs…"

Before Galahad had even finished his sentence, Tristan roughly shoves past him and begins walking as quickly as he possibly can. The three knights follow closely behind him in the event that, with his haste, he might fall and further injure himself.

After what seems an eternity with his thoughts chaotically whirling around his mind, Tristan is the first to reach the stable; yet, even as he does, someone rides out, horse already moving into a full gallop.

He dodges out of the way to avoid getting trampled, but once safe, he recognizes the rider and curses in his native language to himself. Quickly looking around, he sees Jols who has just brought in a horse, the halter and saddle yet remaining on the creature. Faster than anyone can react or so much as shout, the scout mounts the horse, snatches the reins from Jols, and sends the horse forward in pursuit of Iseult.

Behind him, he can hear the yells of Jols, the three knights, and another knight who had just come across the scene shouting for him to stop, but he will not. Yes, Dagonet will be chaining him to the infirmary bed; there will be no getting away from that after the healer knight had seen him jump onto the horse and ride. Honestly, however, he does not care in the slightest.

He _has_ to catch her. That is his only focus.

After they are already outside the wall, he begins to gain on her. Feeling several of his wounds reopening—his right arm, his leg, and under his arm in particular—he knows he cannot keep this pace for long. Making the horse gallop just a little faster, he is able to ride alongside Iseult and with one final urging to the horse, he is able to swerve the creature out in front of Iseult's own horse, forcing it to stop. Mairete barely halts in time and Iseult has to fight to keep the horse from rearing high enough to throw her, but with some effort, she stabilizes and calms the horse.

"What are you doing?" he grounds out through clenched teeth. The pain from his now reopened wounds is excruciating, but he does his best to hide this.

Her face is impassive as she meets his gaze.

"I am returning to the village."

"Why?" he demands, tone sharp.

"It is where I belong."

"You have never belonged with that small-minded group of fools. Why are you returning?"

He does not want to hear that he has driven her to leave, that it is his fault.

"Why does it matter?" she asks, her voice cold and flat.

"Because it does!" he shouts, raising his voice for the first time since she had seen him at the wall. The action brings on a dizzy spell but he struggles against it and retains his balance on the horse.

She does not notice his dizziness but is taken aback by his tone. Hearing Tristan yell is a rare sound indeed, and she cannot imagine why on earth he has done so. For that matter, why does he care?

"Odd. You wished me to return for so long and now you do not. What has changed? Why can I not go back now?"

Hearing her words, he flinches. It _is_ his fault. _He_ has driven her to leave. But she cannot just leave him. He cannot lose her like this.

"Because you cannot!" he yells making his dizziness worsen. "You cannot…" he mutters before the darkness at last seizes him and he starts to pitch forward.

"Tristan!"

Iseult barely catches him in time to prevent him from falling off of the horse.

Slowly and carefully, Iseult aligns her horse directly beside the borrowed horse and—while carefully supporting Tristan—she slides over to the horse, leaning him back against her. It is only now that she notices his wounds that are bleeding afresh. A gasp escapes her lips and, placing a hand on his forehead, she realizes that his fever has returned.

"Tristan…" she murmurs worriedly.

This is her fault.

Wrapping one arm around his torso while carefully trying to avoid hitting any of his wounds, she kicks the horse into a fast gallop, her own horse dutifully following behind them.

When she reaches the stable, she sees the knights gathered there in the process of climbing onto their horses, presumably in an attempt to go after Tristan and her.

Even as she brings her horse to a stop, Dagonet jumps off of his horse and runs to where Iseult cradles the bleeding and unconscious scout.

"What happened?" Dagonet exclaims.

"I don't know!" Iseult responds, voice high with worry. "He just collapsed, but some of his wounds reopened and the fever has returned."

"Get to the infirmary now. I'll be there immediately."

Nodding, she kicks the horse forward and takes off in the direction of the infirmary.

"Here we go again," the giant knight mutters as he breaks into a run, gently shoving people out of the way if they do not move quickly enough. The whole time, he yells, "Medical emergency! Medical emergency!"

Normally, he would never push through the crowd of people blocking his path, but now is not the time to be worried if someone falls and skins a knee. If someone falls, he will simply bandage him or her up later because a skinned knee is not an immediate threat. His friend, however, needs attention now and he must reach him as quickly as possible or there might no longer be the need to do so.

When Dagonet at last reaches the building that houses the infirmary, he is surprised to find that Iseult and Tristan are not still on the borrowed horse. Instead, both the horse Tristan had taken to chase Iseult and Iseult's own horse stand outside of the building, riderless.

Out of breath, Dagonet runs straight into the building, down the halls, and at last into the infirmary to find Arthur and Iseult placing Tristan on a bed palette.

Seeing that they have situated him, Dagonet retrieves what supplies he needs and then returns to the post he had been placed in for a little over a week, immediately setting to work once more. This time, however, Arthur assists him as Iseult falls into a chair by the wall, quite near to tears.

"What happened, Dagonet?" asks Arthur as he passes thread to the healer.

Dagonet sighs heavily and glances at Iseult before returning to Tristan's wounds and answering, "Iseult decided that she felt she had no choice but to leave the wall and Tristan chased her in order to stop her. The ride must have torn loose some of his stitches and the exertion likely brought on the fever."

"This is my fault…" mutters Iseult, gaze on the floor.

At her words, Tristan, though unconscious, begins mumbling in a feverish haze, words only occasionally coherent.

Arthur, catching something sounding like a word, looks to Dagonet.

"What was that he just said?"

"Iseult," Dagonet frowns, shaking his head. "That's what he said."

"Iseult?" repeats the commander, turning to the despondent woman.

"Yes," replies the knight before looking up from Tristan's wounds to her. "Iseult. Come here and hold his hand. Let him know you're still here."

Mutely, she stands from the chair against the wall and approaches the bed, sitting in her chair and grasping the agitated scout's hand. So softly that neither Dagonet nor Arthur can hear her words, she talks to Tristan and the man slowly calms, ceasing his murmurings. After he has quieted, she leans back, still holding his hand, and stares miserably at him.

Dagonet, upon finishing his work, observes her expression at last. After washing his hands he walks to her, pulls chair to be beside hers, and sits.

Arthur, sensing that Dagonet wishes to speak to Iseult, excuses himself from the room, and as soon as he has left, Dagonet focuses on the woman.

"Iseult," he says quietly, looking at her. Though she does not meet his gaze, he knows she is listening and thus he continues. "This is not your fault." He receives no answer and so he tries again. "Iseult. _This_ is not your fault. From the beginning, he has acted as though he did not want you here. I warned him about it and he did so anyway, the stubborn fool. You cannot hold yourself responsible for this. Do you hear me?"

Slowly, she nods, but he is not certain she is convinced. Hearing and accepting are entirely different matters, after all.

Sighing, he realizes that he can say nothing to change her mind, and he simply wraps an arm around her shoulders, holding her in a very brotherly fashion.

"It will be alright, Iseult. It will be alright."

All he can hope is that he is not lying to her.

It is not until the next evening that Tristan wakes again.

The first feeling he recognizes is a hand holding his own. The next is the pain that lingers at the edge of his consciousness. While many would have cowered from the pain, he focuses on the first sensation he had noticed and slowly forces himself to return to reality.

He is not sure what span passes until his eyelids at last flutter open, but by the time his eyes are entirely open, he is already assaulted by sound.

"I am so sorry, Tristan! This is my fault. I just… I'm sorry…"

The man blinks once at the sudden onslaught of words but then looks at her to find her head bowed. Ignoring the pain, he slowly sits up and shakes his head.

"It's not your fault."

When she does not respond, Tristan reaches out to her and, with a gentleness not even he knew he possesses, raises her chin with his fingertips. In doing so, her eyes meet his gaze.

She is crying, he realizes, and a new sort of pain sets in, originating from his chest. Mask almost entirely forgotten, his expression is something much softer than any Iseult remembers, even from childhood.

"Iseult… The fault does not lie with you. It is mine," he says gently, his eyes tired yet sincere.

Unused to such complete openness between them, Iseult turns her face away from him before speaking again.

"How exactly is it your fault?"

"Because you thought that I did not want you here…"

"Then I am to blame for coming at all."

Tristan merely ignores her interruption and continues, "When the truth is that I did not wish you to be in danger."

At this, she turns, eyes full of surprise, confusion, and tears. The last of them rolls down her face, and Tristan reaches out to her and tenderly wipes the tear away with a calloused thumb.

"And I did not want you to see what I have become during my service to Rome."

"Wh… What do you mean by that?"

Sighing and briefly closing his eyes, he reopens them to reveal a weariness and vulnerability that is entirely new to Iseult. Even when they were younger, he had never appeared so open to her, or to anyone else.

"Many people here at the Wall… They look at me as though I am an animal, some creature of prey. Here they have told stories of me to each other and to their children. Stories to make chills run down your spine and turn you blood cold. Not all of them are entirely true, but they are not entirely untrue either…"

She stares at him curiously, as if trying to understand what connection he is making, and so he continues.

"Even Galahad often makes reference that he thinks—as many others here do—that I kill for pleasure," he states, wincing a little as the last words fall. "I did not want you to accompany us on the mission because I _knew_ that if you did and if you saw me on the battlefield, you would look at me as they do with the same look of horror and disgust."

"Tristan, you are my closest and oldest friend. I would never—"

"I know this now. I did not know it _then_. When you were talking to me about the battle, about your thoughts… I realized that you wished to be my friend regardless and that…" he trails off, a slight frown appearing upon his face. "You know, that is twice you have done that."

"I have done what?" she questions.

"Run away."

Reminded of what had occurred, she looks away in embarrassment.

"If you would just give me a moment to reorder my thoughts instead of running away, I could answer you," he responds with a slight sigh.

She looks to him again, confused.

"What do you me—"

A gentle kiss interrupts her as the scout almost perfectly repeats what she had done not so long ago. Pulling back, he then gazes at her as though trying to gage her reaction.

This time, it is she who is surprised and merely stares at him before blinking, "You…"

"Well, you have not slapped me. I suppose that is a good sign," he comments dryly, a hint of amusement in his voice. Slowly, Iseult begins to smile and so he speaks again, "And you have not run; there is another."

A wide smile spreading across her face, Iseult adds, "I haven't pulled a knife either."

"I suppose that is a good sign as well," he nods, a rare chuckle escaping his lips. "Tell me. Why did you run the other two times."

"I have tried to tell myself that we are only friends, but then you will look at me with those eyes, those eyes that see straight to my soul and it just happened… Afterwards, I was so embarrassed that I just… ran."

"From now forward, what do you say that neither of us runs away? Eh?" he questions, leaning toward her again yet stopping and waiting for her answer. "Wherever one of us travels, the other is there. Always."

"I think it a fine idea indeed," she quietly responds.

Given his answer, Tristan continues forward and soon engages Iseult in a real kiss, from which the two only pull away when they realize the necessity of air.

The sound of the door opening alerts them to another person entering the room. Reluctantly, Iseult leans back in her chair, but Tristan skillfully catches her hand and holds it, earning a smirk from her.

"Well," begins Dagonet as he enters the room. "It seems you are awake just in time for me to clean your wounds, rebandage them, and tell you how incredibly stupid that was of you. I only hope it is worth it."

Holding Iseult's hand and staring into her eyes, Tristan allows himself a true smile as he replies.

"It is."


	20. Hope

**Epilogue: Hope**

A year after the battle, Iseult finds herself atop the parapet and overlooking the construction of a new place, a new city.

With the support of Guinevere, Arthur had laid out the plans for a place where equality and justice will prevail against all else and no one is a slave to any other. In this new city will dwell knight, villager, and Woad, all equal to one another. This grand ideal of Arthur might not immediately produce such an effect, but, with time, differences are overcome and prejudices are laid to rest.

Already, these differences are dwindling as all of the peoples work towards this utopia. In fact, at almost any time of the day, villager and Woad can be found raising beams and setting stones.

Arms from behind gently wrapping around her waist pull her from her thoughts even as the owner of the arms pulls her close.

Turning and leaning ever so slightly to the side, she smiles.

He had almost entirely recovered from his battle with the Saxons. Those who knew him before the battle can tell only the slightest difference in how fluidly he can wield a blade, and his name still remains one to be feared, though never by her.

"Hello, Tristan."

Wordlessly, he returns her smile before looking out at the construction.

"It will not be much longer, I think," he quietly states.

"No, it will not," she agrees returning her own attention to the emerging city.

The two remain like this for quite some time, enjoying the company of each other and of the summer day in contented silence until another visitor comes to stand not far from them.

Iseult looks to the blue-painted, wild-bearded man with no small amount of puzzlement.

Since she had first seen him after the battle, she had thought that, somehow, she owed him a great debt. Try as she may, however, she can never determine why she feels this way. There have been times, fleeting instances, where she thinks she might figure it out but then had, just as quickly, the answer is lost again.

Merlin turns to look at her and Tristan and, for some unfathomable reason, he smiles.

There is something in the smile that seems knowing. It is almost as though he has heard her thoughts and understands. Though no words have passed between them, Iseult feels as though, whatever her debt, he knows that she is grateful.

The man remains at his section of the wall for a few moments longer before walking toward Tristan and her.

At the sound of his approach, Tristan—ears as sharp as ever—turns to look at him and nods.

"Merlin."

"Greetings to you, Knight, and to you, Lady," Merlin replies, a warm light in his eyes. "Pleased to see together the two of you. Hope is mine with the future you have carved, that you will be happy both."

Leaving a very confused Tristan and somewhat less confused Iseult behind him, Merlin turns and descends the stairs without another glance at either.

Tristan, not understanding exactly to what Merlin refers, only shakes his head and looks forward again, arms still around Iseult.

Iseult, however, feels as though her answer has in some way been given and, not wanting to ponder over the matter any longer, she simply leans against Tristan and enjoys the warm summer breeze as they watch the rise of Camelot…


End file.
